


Ever Since Happiness Heard Your Name

by WritestuffLee



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, M/M, Unbeta'd, WIP
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:48:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 26
Words: 148,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27142012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritestuffLee/pseuds/WritestuffLee
Summary: Former Special Forces Colonel Khalil Cahill retires and buys a house in the boondocks near his comrade Marc. It comes with a unexpected caretaker.
Relationships: Adi Gallia/Mace Windu, Qui-Gon Jinn/Obi-Wan Kenobi
Comments: 248
Kudos: 71





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I blame this on enjoying both "Wind in the In Between" by extraneous_accessories and "Taken" just a little too much. This story got into my head full blown on Monday morning as I was waking up and hasn't left me alone since. 
> 
> Warning for bigoted assholery and mild violence.
> 
> Unbeta'd. If you find mistakes/typos/inconsistencies, let me know.

_Ever since happiness heard your name_   
_It has been running through the streets_   
_Trying to find you._

_– Hafiz_

The shot pinged off the armored edge of the black SUV’s windshield frame and set Khalil’s heart racing, his hands trembling on the wheel. Fortunately they had come to a stop outside the main house and weren’t still on the road.

“Dammit!” his companion in the passenger seat yelled and started to roll down his window.

Khalil closed a hand on his arm, trying to stave off a full flashback. “What the fuck are you doing, Marc? We’re under fire!”

Sherriff Winston laughed. “That’s just Obi being an asshole.” He finished rolling down the window and stuck his head out while Khalil tried not to totally lose his shit. “Obi!” he yelled. “Put the goddamn gun away. Mr. Cahill bought this place fair and square. If you’re nice to him, he might not make me arrest you.”

Khalil took a series of deep breaths and consciously unclenched his hands, focusing on the fresh air coming through the window, not a whiff of smoke or dust or cordite or death in it. _Not Syria, not Syria, not Syria._ “Who the hell is Obi?” he managed.

Winston’s expression was a mixture of anger and pity. “Just a kid, really. He must be about 16 now. His parents were—are—preppers, the fundamentalist kind, and they moved away and left him behind when they discovered he was queer as a three-dollar bill. That was two years ago. He’s been here alone ever since.”

“Wait, the Kenners are his parents?”

Winston nodded. “Did you meet them, in the course of the sale? I’d be surprised.”

“No,” Khalil said, “it was all done through our brokers. I was in Dublin, after Syria, for most of it.” He was calmer now, back where he belonged.

“Syria,” Winston shook his head. “What a clusterfuck. I’ll bet you’re glad to be out of there. Afghanistan was bad enough.”

“You have no idea,” Khalil muttered, suppressing a shudder. “Why isn’t he in school? What happened with social services?”

“Can’t catch him. He’s a wily little shit. Home schooled and half feral, like a lot of prepper kids who grow up in these woods. We’ve had more than a couple run wild. Social services can’t do much as long as the home schooling paperwork is in order and the kids seem okay.”

“Jayzus.” Khalil shook his head. “I wish I could say I can’t believe they abandoned him, but I’ve seen parents do worse.”

“Yeah, we both have, Kal,” Winston said grimly. “Let me go first. He probably won’t do anything else, but—”

Khalil touched his arm to get his attention and nodded out the windshield.

Ten yards away stood a young man with a rifle over his shoulder. Marc was right—he didn’t look much more than 16, maybe 17, just old enough to be growing some real scruff instead of peach fuzz. His hair was long—almost as long as Khalil’s, which fell to just below his shoulders—and matted into unintentional dreads, his clothing threadbare and dirty and too small. Scrawny didn’t begin to describe him. The look on his face was a mixture of desperation and anger.

“Let me talk to him, Marc,” Khalil said, and unlocked the doors. “You’ve got history with him.”

At the sound of the doorlocks clicking open, the rifle came down off the boy’s shoulder as he waited to see which side would open. Khalil swung his door open and stepped out, keeping the armored metal and glass between himself and the boy, though he suspected he wouldn’t need it. The kid looked ready to cry. But he’d been fooled by kids before, ones less visibly armed.

“Who’re you?” the boy barked, standing up straighter in a vain attempt to make himself look bigger. “What’re you doing on my land?”

Khalil slouched a bit behind the door to do the opposite. “My name’s Khalil Cahill, sir. My friends call me Kal. And your name?”

The boy seemed surprised by Khalil’s tone, which was respectful and distinctly lacking in hostility. “Obi. Obediah Kenner. I live here. This is my parents’ house, but they’re not here. What’re you doing here?” he asked again, a little less hostile himself. The rifle barrel drifted downward and away.

“Well, as the Sherriff said, I bought this property from the Kenners, but I didn’t realize there was a caretaker already on-site. Thanks for keeping an eye on it before I could get here.”

“You got proof?” the boy said, setting his mouth in a grim line.

“I have the contract right here, sir. I’d be happy to show it to you. I appreciate your caution and attention to detail. Are you staying in the main house?” Khalil could not have been more polite.

The boy shook his head. “No. It’s—they emptied it. Before they left.” The last three words nearly choked him. He was trying so hard to be brave, with his last bit of shelter and security torn out from under him again. Khalil felt a big hole open up in his heart. Marc was giving him The Look through the windshield. _Stray dogs. Lost kittens. Hungry kids. You’re a sucker, Kal._ “I’ve been sleeping in the shed out back.” Jayzus. Khalil hoped it was heated somehow.

He purposefully looked around at the leaves turning in the forest on the property. “That’s got to be getting cold this time of year.” The boy shrugged in the way of all teenagers trying to be hardasses. Khalil let that go for now. “How about you show me around, after I show you the contract? I haven’t been back in this part of the country for a long time. And I never got to see more than pictures of this place.”

The boy looked torn and confused and unsure of what to do or say.

Sherriff Winston opened his door and mirrored Khalil by keeping it between himself and the boy, though his window was still down. “Hey, Obi,” he said, gently, following Khalil’s lead. “If it means anything, I can vouch for this guy. I’ve known him a long time. He’s a good man. He’ll be fair with you.”

“From whose point of view?” the boy muttered. It was an astute question, from a homeless kid facing down law enforcement and the ruthless side of capitalism with nothing but a rifle.

“You know, it’s going to be a while before my stuff shows up, since it’s coming from overseas via government shipping,” Khalil said. “I don’t know how much work the place needs and I could use some inside information about the property’s quirks. The broker’s pictures don’t show everything and I wasn’t here for the inspection, obviously.” Not to mention they’d somehow overlooked or failed to mention the kid’s presence on the property. “I’d be happy to pay you for some of your expert knowledge and the past caretaking you did, from, say, the closing date to now? And maybe beyond that. I’ve still got some loose ends to tie up and I’ll need someone to keep an eye on contractors and such. Maybe we could negotiate some kind of working arrangement?”

The boy glanced over at Winston, who nodded encouragingly, then took a deep breath and mirrored him. “Okay, yeah. If you’ve really bought the place. Nothing I can do about that, and I’m not ready to go full mountain man and live in the woods if I don’t have to.”

“Seems wise, the way the winters get here,” Khalil agreed, relieved at the boy’s decision and not unhappy to have a delicate problem to solve to keep his mind from other things. “I’ll just get the contract for you.” He ducked inside the SUV, keeping his movements slow and easy, and dug the folded sheets from the messenger bag he was using these days instead of a briefcase. He walked it over to the boy with his hands in sight, stopped well outside his personal space, and extended the papers to him. He watched as the boy perused them carefully, whether for show or in fact. Finished, he looked up at Khalil.

“What happens if I rip this up?”

Khalil shrugged. “I get another copy from the lawyers, or the county.”

“Right,” he muttered. “Of course.” He flipped to the last page. “So the closing date was six weeks ago? What took you so long to get out here?”

“A job I was on stretched out longer than I thought it would,” Khalil said vaguely, not eager to discuss that part of his life with this boy. “How about that tour?”

The boy gave him a closer look, up and down, then nodded to himself. He snapped the rifle’s safety on and, in an unexpected move, handed it to the Sherriff. “I hate these things,” he said and turned back to Khalil. “Inside or out, first?”

It was a long and thorough tour of the several-acre property. They walked the land, first, after Khalil checked that his keys worked and that the power and water had been turned on as he’d arranged. Obi took him around the back first, pointing out the shed where the generator had lived, which was now empty, to the winter-ready remains of a large vegetable garden that ran right down to a good sized greenhouse where the start of a hydroponics garden resided. “Dad—my father always meant to do that, but never got around to it,” the boy explained when Khalil queried its state. “I’ve been working on it when I can get the parts.”

“Ambitious. Looks like it’s coming along nicely,” Khalil observed truthfully.

Off one side of the greenhouse was another rough corrugated shed hung with mostly empty pegboards, the shadows of tools still visible—what had once been a woodshop. The few tools that remained were old but well cared for. Another shed, open-sided, held several cords of wood, some of it freshly chopped and split, drying to one side.

And behind the greenhouse was another tiny shed, possibly 250 square feet, this one looking nothing like the other sheds. It had started rough, as the rusted corrugated shedroof revealed, but had clearly been renovated, if in a piecemeal fashion. It was sided clapboard-style with what looked like reclaimed lumber, and was pierced by an odd assortment of windows, one or two of the panes filled in roughly with pieces of colored glass. A metal chimney poked out one side, looking almost whimsical. A rain barrel collected water from the roof.

“This is where you’ve been sleeping?” Khalil asked.

The boy nodded, defiantly nonchalant. “Easier to heat in the winter than the big house.”

“May I?” Khalil asked, fully prepared to be rebuffed.

“Sure. Why not? You own it,” Obi said, turning the knob and sarcastically bowing him in as though to a palace.

Khalil had to duck to enter and Obi following him in made it crowded. The Sherriff looked in from the doorway. Neither of them were sure what they had expected, but this wasn’t it. For one thing, there was no teen squalor, though there was unwashed fug that was only to be expected given the lack of running water. The interior was neat and orderly, with a minimum of possessions—with the exception of books. The shed was literally insulated with books on shelves everywhere but near the tiny cast iron wood stove that took up most of one corner and clearly served for both cooking and heating. Its corner had been carefully bricked in to deflect heat. A sleeping pad and bag were rolled in another corner. Two old aluminum pots hung beside the stove on nails and an old fashioned iron kettle sat on top of it. Light came from a hurricane lamp with a large, hand-poured beeswax candle.

“Snug,” Khalil observed. “Smart using the books for insulation.”

“That and my clothes were the only things—” He looked away, jaw clenched.

“Looks like you could use some new clothes,” Khalil said gently. “Show me the rest of the property and we’ll see if we can get that done with part of your back pay.”

The boy nodded. “Yeah, I’ve pretty much grown out of everything. That’s probably a good idea.”

Following along behind as Obi took them through the small orchard, Winston marveled at the way Khalil had negotiated his way into a civil relationship with a kid half the county had unsuccessfully been trying to help for the last two years. Born diplomat, this guy. No wonder he was always sent into the hotspots.

They walked the house the same way they’d walked the land, Obi pointing out potential leak spots in the roof, floor joists he might want to replace and where the load-bearing walls were. The biggest surprise was the full basement and the amount of storage space it contained—and the tunnel from the house to the greenhouse. “Because why should you have to go outside in January for fresh lettuce?” Obi pointed out.

“Your father built this house by himself?” Khalil asked.

Obi nodded. “He was always working on it. We lived in an RV all one summer when I was about six and that’s when the bulk of it went up. I remember holding down the copper piping to heat the floors so he could clamp it in place.”

“Circulating water through the hearth,” Khalil nodded. “That was one of the attractions of the house, and the other off-the-grid features. Your father did fine work.”

“Yeah, too bad he’s such a bigoted son of a bitch,” Obi muttered, an opinion Khalil shared.

The next several days involved some intensive negotiations that Sherriff Winston watched in fascination. He’d seen Kal in action before in totally different circumstances, some involving hostage situations, but couldn’t remember anything quite this delicate. The Kenner boy—not a boy, really, they discovered, but a young man—was touchy as hell, all wounded pride and seething rage hiding terror and uncertainty. Anything that would help him had to be couched in terms of work, not charity. Kal wrote up a backdated contract to hire him as a caretaker for the place while he was gone, paid him “back” wages for doing so from the closing date to the present, and had fast internet installed in the house and provided a laptop so they could ostensibly communicate more easily while Kal was abroad. Obi couldn’t be coaxed back into the house for anything but showers, laundry, and work though. Winston suspected there were too many bad memories associated with it; both he and Kal knew what that was like.

From under the dirt and ragged clothing emerged a quite different person that first day. The hair, shorn down to a military buzzcut courtesy of Khalil, turned out to be a coppery auburn. That had been an interesting negotiation all by itself, Khalil delicately suggesting that it might save Obi’s dignity if it was cut before they ventured out to buy clothing; Obi had one set of clothing he saved for public appearances that was a tad small but clean enough for him to pass muster. When the trim was done with barber scissors from Khalil’s luggage, he scrubbed a hand over his almost naked scalp in bemusement but nodded in the mirror. “Looks good. Thanks,” was his only remark. A good scrub in the shower and some new clothing from Walmart revealed a handsome face and an underfed physique that made him look younger than he actually was.

Khalil and Winston both thought it likely Obi had missed some growth milestones in the last couple of years, though he was never going to be a big man. His father was a scrappy little fucker too and his mother a petite woman. Hopefully some regularly available food would let him at least fill out if not catch up. Skinny or not, he was muscular from the hard physical labor and carried himself with a strangely adult confidence for someone just barely turned 18.

“At least we won’t have Child Services on our backs about why he’s not in school or foster care,” Winston remarked over a beer at one of the local bars. Khalil had left Obi with a kitchen full of groceries and basic cooking and eating implements, but no liquor. “But I’m surprised he’s as old as he is.”

“The timeline makes more sense, getting outed at 16 rather than 14,” Kal replied, taking a swig from the bottle because that’s how the locals did it. “I’d sure like to ring his old man’s neck. And it doesn’t speak well of his mother, either. He cleans up well though.”

“Why’re you doing this, Kal?” Winston asked. “You don’t know this kid from Adam and you don’t owe him anything.”

Khalil gave him a lopsided smile. “I thought you knew me by now, Marc. I saw that look you flashed me earlier—the ‘here we go again’ look.”

Winston shook his head and laughed. “Yeah, you and your strays.”

“This one’s a little different though,” Khalil conceded. His expression morphed into a fierce frown. “I could have been this kid, Marc. Catholic father, Muslim mother, raised in both religious traditions. If they hadn’t been diplomats, the two of them, and travelled the world, I might have been facing the same thing when I came out to them, especially the year I did. Instead, Mama gave me a buss on the cheek, said she was honored I trusted them so much, and called me _habibi_ , and Da just told me to be careful and practice safe sex. And both of them wanted to check out any boyfriends. That’s the reaction this kid should have had. It’s the 21st century, for fuck’s sake.”

“In some parts of the country, it is. In others, it’s still 1895.”

As if to prove the point, Khalil felt a tap on his shoulder and heard the dreaded words, “you’re not from around here, are you?” In his peripheral vision, he could see Marc rolling his eyes and put a hand on the Sherriff’s arm to forestall any further reaction, knowing this would have to be his show as much as his negotiations with Obi were. He turned on his barstool with his bottle in his hand.

“I am now,” he said to the slightly drunken, roughly middle-aged white man who had tapped his shoulder, letting just a wee bit of auld sod creep into his mostly non-existent accent. “I just bought the Kenner place.”

“You another long-haired hippie weirdo type like the Kenners?” the man said suspiciously. His own hair was cropped as short as Obi’s now was and fast disappearing under his red ballcap. Khalil thought he and Marc were both a good bit older than their new acquaintance.

“I can’t deny the long hair, can I?” Khalil smiled. “But if you’re asking if I’m a back to the land believer in the apocalypse, the answer is no. I like the amenities Kenner put in, but I’ve already plugged back into the grid.” He put his hand on the Sherriff’s shoulder. “Marc was kind enough to let me know the place had come on the market when I was looking for somewhere to retire. It’s good to have friends in the neighborhood when you’re new.” Khalil stuck out his hand. “I’m Kal Cahill. Can I buy you a beer, friend?”

Winston swore there was some kind of magic spell Kal had up his sleeve for using in times like this. He’d seen it again and again, in Afghanistan and elsewhere they’d served together. The local villagers treated him like an old friend, and the assholes in their own company who whispered about him being part sand nigger or raghead or whatever slur they were most fond of when they first met soon trusted him to have their six. Kal made friends pretty much everywhere he went, or at least didn’t make enemies.

By the end of the evening, Kal had been vetted and more or less passed by all but the most hardcore of the militia boys Winston had learned to keep an eye on. The two of them tipped their bottles to the small group as they made their noisy way out, leaving the atmosphere behind them in the bar cleaner and more relaxed.

“How’d you ever get elected sherriff here with that bunch?”

Winston shrugged. “You mean me personally with all my handsome charm, or me as a Black man?”

Khalil gave him a wry smile. “Obviously your handsome charm won the majority over.”

“Don’t forget I grew up here. These folks have known me and my family for a long time. The militia assholes are newish; they weren’t really around when I was a kid, and most folks here don’t like them, secretly or otherwise. It’s military country, even now that the base has closed, and you know what most military types think of the militias.”

Khalil’s expression settled into distaste. “Play soldiers. Or wannabes who couldn’t cut it under real fire.”

The bartender, a young woman with a cap of short blond hair, leaned over the bar and pinched Winston’s cheek. “You know we love you, Marc. If you weren’t already married, and I didn’t adore your wife, I’d be chasing you.”

Winston sighed. “I’m old enough to be your dad, Siri. And you’re just barely old enough to be selling me beer. When are you going to stop flirting with me?”

She gave a sly look to Khalil. “I like experienced men.”

Khalil laughed. “Sorry, darlin’. You’re on the wrong team for me. But I’m flattered.”

“Dammit! Why are all the good ones either gay or taken?” Siri complained. “It’s the lament of good women everywhere.”

“How sure are you that I’m a good one?” Khalil teased. She was fun to flirt with and they both seemed to enjoy it. He hadn’t flirted with anyone—in earnest or otherwise—in far too long.

“Well, you’re friends with Marc. He’s such a goody two-shoes. How do you two know each other?”

“We served in Afghanistan together,” Winston told her. “Kal saved my ass more than once.”

“I think that was pretty mutual,” Khalil said modestly.

“So you were Special Forces too?” Siri asked, wiping the bar down.

Khalil nodded. “I suppose that came out in your campaign,” he said archly. “Using your military service as a campaign tool. Typical politician. Good thing I wasn’t around to tell the truth about what a lazy sod you were.”

Winston was unrepentant. “Here I thought you were my friend. I asked you to be my best man and everything. Of course it came out in my campaign, in the interests of transparency. And you should talk. I have photos of you actually sleeping on the job.”

The bantering continued until their beer was gone. Khalil tried to give Siri his credit card but she waved it away. “First one’s on me, neighbor. Don’t be a stranger now.”

“Thank you. I look forward to the pleasure of your company,” Khalil replied, giving a little bow and turning on the charm. Siri actually blushed and shooed him away.

“Round one to you, Colonel,” Winston said as they exited. “You heading back to the hotel? We’d be happy to put you up for another night…”

“Thanks. I’ve got a long drive to the airport for an early flight, Marc,” Khalil said, putting a hand on his shoulder and giving it a squeeze. “I don’t want to disturb you folks too much, after I already overstayed my welcome getting Obi settled in. I appreciate the offer though. I’ll be back in a couple of months, hopefully with my own bed by then. I can just leave the tank in the long-term parking like I usually do. In the meanwhile—”

Winston let out an exaggerated, eye-rolling sigh. “I’ll keep an eye on your pet project. I always do. And your house, too. Have a good flight. Stay out of trouble.”

The two men shook hands and pulled each other in for brief hug. Khalil walked to the far end of the parking lot to retrieve his “tank,” the armored SUV he’d bought from government surplus when he decided he’d be settling in the States permanently. It had been a diplomatic vehicle and was already a little dinged from its service in the rough streets of DC, though not as much as the one he’d had in Bahrain. At least it hadn’t been until tonight. Now, he found that someone had keyed the finish on the driver’s side with a long scratch that ran down the length of the vehicle. “Well, shit,” he muttered. “Round two to you, assholes.”

The back of his neck prickled as he stood surveying the damage and wondering whether to bother to tell Marc about it. He let the man attempt a headlock he wasn’t quite tall enough to execute well, ducked his chin inside the man’s arm, then bent over and rolled his attacker over his right shoulder. Then he grabbed one arm and flipped the man over on his stomach, bending that arm up hard behind his back while kneeling on his pelvis. In less than 15 seconds, his attacker was immobilized and grunting in pain.

“Let me guess,” Khalil said in a conversational tone. “You were going to say, ‘we don’t like your kind here,’ or ‘your kind ain’t welcome here,’ followed by some second grade playground slur. Am I right?” When the man said nothing, Khalil increased the angle on his arm just a little.

“Yes!” the man grated out. “Go back where you came from, raghead.”

Khalil rolled his eyes. “You’re like a bad cartoon villain. Let me tell you a little about myself, _friend._ I was born in the US and hold citizenship here and in Ireland. I speak four languages in addition to English. I served three tours in Afghanistan in the United States Army Special Forces and until recently worked as a security consultant for the United States Government. How about you? Did you graduate from high school?” He pulled the arm a little higher when the man didn’t answer.

“Yes!”

“College?” That was answered with a shake of the head. “Serve in the armed forces?” Another headshake. “Ever left the country?” Headshake. “The state?” Headshake. “The county?” A nod. “Good. That’s a good start. Before you start hating people who don’t look like you, get out and educate yourself about people outside your little insular world. You might find they’re a lot like you are. Except they have better manners.” He let go of the man’s arm and got up, then offered him a hand up. The man got up on his own and turned to face Khalil, rubbing his shoulder.

Khalil recognized him as one of the men who hadn’t warmed to him earlier in the bar. “Jeff Robinson,” he said, and the man seemed startled that Khalil remembered his name. “I’ll send you the bill for my new paint job. Now go home.”

Robinson turned around and started to walk away. “Ice that shoulder,” Khalil called after him.

“Fuck you, man.” Robinson snarled and got into his own beat-up Dodge Ram.

“Not in your wildest dreams,” Khalil muttered and got into his SUV. He waited for Robinson to leave and then sat for a few minutes to make sure his hands were steady enough to drive before starting the tank and heading for his hotel. He wanted, suddenly, to call Obi, to make sure he was all right. Warm enough, fed, safe. To make sure he knew somebody cared about him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Obi oversees Khalil's renovation and makes some new friends. (Not your average "the boyz buy curtains.") Marc loses his shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told you this story was riding me. Almost 3200 words in between work tasks. Sheesh.
> 
> Also unbeta'd. Feel free to point out egregious errors.

It took longer than Khalil expected—or wanted—to wrap things up in Dublin and instead of three months it was six before he made it back stateside again. Selling the flat that had belonged to his parents had been relatively easy once the rental tenant was gone, but getting the financial side arranged had been the usual bureaucratic nightmare with extra hoops for him to jump through to make sure all the assets were actually his and not money being laundered for some crime syndicate or foreign country. It was frustrating, but having seen enough actual money laundering in his lifetime, he understood the necessity for the caution. He just wished they’d move a little faster.

He checked in with Marc once a month or so, to see how Obi was doing, and with the lad himself when the need arose, since he didn’t want to seem as if he were hovering. After the first exchanges of emails—a skill Obi had acquired quickly after being deprived of the internet all his life—Khalil introduced him to Skype, just because it was easier to iron out details face to face. It also had the advantage of letting him have a look at Obi himself. Though it was hard to tell over Skype, the lad seemed to be filling out gradually. His face was not as hollow and the look of desperation was disappearing from his eyes, as though he was slowly realizing that he was safe, at least for now. The wariness he’d shown was also receding, though he refused to call Khalil anything but Mr. Cahill.

The contractors managed to install the two I-beams to replace the downstairs loadbearing walls so they could open up the space, and the French doors opening out on what would be a wrapround porch, before the first snow. Work on the kitchen renovation proceeded apace and Obi sent him photos of the new countertops that matched the original warmed slate floors, and assured him the stainless steel appliances had arrived intact and been installed. Winter finally blew in hard just before Christmas while they discussed what to put in the garden in the spring (less food, more flowers).

“I know it’s not your first holiday on your own, but I just wanted to wish you Happy Christmas and see how you’re doing,” Khalil said over a Skype on Christmas Day. He’d been on his own for holidays for so many years it hardly seemed remarkable anymore, but he also knew it didn’t get easier when you suddenly had no one to celebrate with.

Obi, however, seemed distracted. His hair had grown out several inches since the October scalping, and either needed to be cut again, or controlled with some judicious use of what his barbers called “product.”

“Merry, er, Happy Christmas to you, too, Mr. Cahill. Sorry, I’m just, I can’t figure out what to wear! Sherriff Winston invited me for Christmas dinner and like an idiot I said yes.”

Khalil kept his glee to a mild smile and sent a silent “thank you” to Winston and his wife, who was no doubt the real source of the invitation. “That was nice of him. Knowing Marc and Adi, it’s not a formal affair, so a nice pair of khakis and a button-down should do. Do you have a hostess gift?”

Obi looked simultaneously relieved and panicked. “That’s a thing? God, the more I meet actual people, the more I’m beginning to realize I was raised by wolves. We didn’t even celebrate Christmas.”

“No?” Khalil responded, surprised. “That is pretty fundamentalist, certainly. Right back to foundational Christianity.”

“That was my folks, all right,” Obi said grimly. “What can I do about this hostess gift? What is it, usually?”

“Nothing big,” Khalil reassured him. “A bottle of not too expensive wine usually suffices. There should be one in the cellar from that crate I ordered that you can take and pay me for later. Take the laptop down there and we’ll pick one.”

_The Winstons <MarcWinston&Fam@gmail.com> 9:35 PM  
to Kal _

_Hey Kal,_

_Merry Christmas again, this time from the girls and Adi too. Just wanted to let you know how dinner with the young Kenner boy went. Adi fell in love instantly and wanted to adopt him even though he’s too old now for foster care. Thanks for picking out that bottle of wine for him. He might have died of embarrassment later, otherwise, when he realized he’d come empty handed and the other guests hadn’t. Adi gushed appropriately and made him feel good about it. I think she’s taking him on as a project, since our own kids are out of the house and rejecting our interference in their lives unless it involves money. He’s a pretty great kid, I have to say. I think I would have been proud to have him as a son, and that makes me want to boot his old man in the ass with my steel-toed shitkickers. I have second dibs on him after you. Although I’d probably have to arrest us both for assault afterwards._

_Seriously, though, even the girls were impressed. He’s painfully polite and afraid of giving offense (but that might just be because I’m an authority figure) and not anywhere near as socially awkward as I expected him to be. I think he likes people and he’s been lonely as hell for most of his life. He’s starved for both company and affection. I don’t think his parents ever hugged him. He seemed bewildered by the experience when Adi tried it. The real surprise was how whip-smart he is. I have a feeling he’s read all those books in that shed and more. God knows what he’ll teach himself now that he’s loose in the World Wide Webs. Not just porn, that’s for sure. He’s also dangerously charming, and I say that as the Straightest Man You Know. Watch yourself, buddy._

_The house looks like it’s coming along, but I think you’re probably getting all the reports on that that you need._

_I’m really looking forward to having you around here on a permanent basis._

_See you soon, Colonel._

_Marc_

Khalil called again at New Year’s to wish Obi a happy one and see how the dinner with Marc and Adi went from Obi’s point of view. This time, Obi answered the call with a big grin on his face. Khalil realized he hadn’t seen the lad even smile, let alone display this kind of whole-hearted pleasure.

“You look happy. A good way to start the New Year,” Khalil said, feeling himself mirror Obi’s smile.

“Happy New Year to you too, Mr. Cahill. I—I am happy. I think that’s what this is. It feels weird as hell—sorry—but I am. I think I have you to thank for that, sir.”

“What brought this on?” Khalil asked.

“Well, it started with that dinner at the sheriff’s house. I mean, I didn’t realize what a nice guy he was, or that he’d actually been trying to help me, after—before—when—”

“When you were alone?” Khalil said gently. Obi nodded.

“Yeah. His wife’s so nice too. And his two daughters. They were home from college and said to say thanks for the presents you sent them. I guess you’ve known the sheriff for a long time.”

Khalil laughed. “Probably as long as you’ve been alive, if not longer. I was best man at his wedding. I’m glad you enjoyed yourself at their dinner. They’re good people. Their whole families are.”

“They are! I mean, it sounds weird, but I’m so surprised that you all have been so nice to me. I was always taught people Outside,” Khalil could hear the capital letter, “were, you know, godless heathens. Corrupt and evil and without any morals. They’re not, mostly. At least so far. I haven’t met that many yet. But you and Sheriff Winston and his family—you’re really nice people.”

“Well, thank you, Obi,” Khalil found himself pleased and oddly touched to be included in that circle of people Obi was coming to trust. “We all just try to do right by others. We’re not always successful, but the intent is there and that counts for a lot. Is that what you’re so happy about? That you discovered there are good people in the world?”

“Crazy, huh?” Obi replied, seeming astonished himself. “But I’m just starting to realize how scared of people I’ve been my whole life, and how alone I’ve been. I feel like—is it okay to consider you and the Winstons friends?”

Khalil could feel Obi’s anxiety over the miles of fiberoptics connecting them. “I would be honored to be considered your friend, Obi, and I know the Winstons would too. But that means you have to start calling me Kal. That’s what my friends call me.”

“But you’re my employer!” the lad blurted.

“They’re not mutually exclusive,” Khalil told him, “though to me, the friendship category is far more important.”

Obi surreptitiously wiped his eyes and Khalil deliberately failed to notice. “Thank you, sir. Mr.—Kal.”

“What is it people your age say now? ‘I appreciate you,’ Obi. I’m glad to be your friend.”

_Obediah Kenner <ObediahKenner@gmail.com> 11:36 AM  
to Kal_

_Dear Kal (okay, that still feels weird, but thank you),_

_Your furniture arrived! The container from the United Arab Emirates (whoa!) arrived yesterday and was unpacked by the movers, so the house is pretty full of stuff. Then this morning, another container arrived from Ireland and it’s being unpacked now. Is it bad that I’ve fallen in love with your rugs? They look fantastic on these floors and the colors are just amazing. Do you mind if I ask where they’re from? They look old and I know they’re handmade. Machines don’t do that kind of work, only people do._

_I’m not sure where you want things, so I sketched out some possibilities on the new floor plans. Now that the inside walls are gone on the first floor, the house feels like a brand new place. It’s so sunny in here now. I hadn’t realized how dark this house was until you opened it up._

_Anyway, have a look at the floor plan and Skype or email me with changes you want to make._

_Best regards,_

_Obi_

“I was glad to hear you think the house is bright now, Obi,” Khalil said in the Skype call the following day. “That’s exactly what I’d hoped for, so thanks for confirming it,” he added with a touch of relief. Renovating at a distance wasn’t his ideal choice, so he was more than glad to have eyes on the ground. “The hardwood floors are really beautiful and I wanted to show them off. Speaking of floors, you asked about the rugs; they’re from Iran, from my mother’s side of the family, and older than I am. They might be older than she was. You’re right that they’re hand-woven. They’ll need pads before they’re unrolled for good though. I’ll order them and have them sent to you.”

“Okay, now I’m scared to walk on them.”

“That’s what rugs are for, so don’t be. They’ve had everything in the world spilled on them during their existence,” Khalil laughed. “Are the painters done yet? I’d rather that not be one of the things that gets spilled on them, that said.”

“Just finished last week. They came in right after the floors were refinished, just in time for your furniture to arrive. I made sure they got all the paint spots off the floors too. That pale green reminds me of spring leaves. I didn’t think I’d like it, but I do,” Obi said, and then paused. He seemed a bit anxious suddenly and Khalil wondered what he was worried about. “Listen, Mister—Kal, about this caretaker gig. How long are you meaning for it to go on? I mean, the renovations are just about done, your furniture is here…”

“Do you have another job you’d like to take?” Khalil asked, realizing he liked that thought less than he should.

“No, nothing like that,” Obi said. “I—well, I’ve got a confession to make. It’s been a really cold winter here and a couple of nights the woodstove in the shed just wasn’t enough, so I crashed on your floor. I hope you don’t mind. I was wondering whether I ought to bother upgrading the shed or—”

Khalil breathed a silent sigh of relief, though he knew the next bit of negotiation would be tricky. “Or move into the house? I’m fine with that.”

Obi gawked at him. “What? No, I was going to suggest I find somewhere else to live unless you want me on-site. I mean, you’re paying me enough that I can at least find some roommates somewhere.”

“Why do that if you’ve got an empty house to yourself right now? You can save more of what I’m paying you for, oh, a car, college, other necessities. And if you’re worried about me asking you to leave when I get back to the States, you can stop now. I hadn’t planned on it. The first year after a move always has a lot of work associated with it and I could use someone with your skills to help out. There’s no reason for you to stay in that shed when I’m already heating the house for you and the builders to work in. Did you want your old room?”

It took a few moments for Obi to wrap his head around Khalil’s suggestion, but the idea of taking his old room clearly did not appeal. He tried to conceal his feelings on the matter, but without much success. _Can’t say I blame you, lad. I’m sure there are plenty of bad memories in there, too._ “Um, how about this,” Obi began slowly. “I know you’re planning a master bedroom and bath on the second floor, so what about the attic space? I’d be out of your way, and it’s not much use for anything but storage with all those dormers in it.”

 _But it’s the perfect space for a young man still finding his feet and identity,_ Khalil thought. Private and removed from the main tenant, close enough for company, familiar enough to make him feel secure, and different enough to not have bad associations. “Well, I didn’t have any other plans for that space, since it’s a little hard to reach with that drop-down staircase. It’s unfinished though, correct?”

“It just needs some drywall and framing on the windows. I don’t know what my father had planned for it, but it never happened. The electrical and plumbing is all in, and there’s plywood on the floor. I’d just have to open up the heating vents. It’s already well-insulated so you won’t lose any heat through the roof.”

“Is that work you could do?” Khalil asked. He’d seen the shed, but that was a different kind of carpentry than this would be. He thought it might be a nice way for him to make the space his own.

“Sure, I might need a hand nailing the drywall up, but that’s all. I can get most of what I need scrounging from—”

“No, if we’re going to do this, let’s do it with good materials,” Khalil said and watched Obi’s face fall. There was no way he could afford the kinds of materials Khalil was paying for. “How about this: I’ll buy the materials if you’ll do the work. That way, when our arrangement comes to an end, I’ll put in a proper stair and turn that into a guest suite. Make sense?”

Obi brightened. “That’s—yeah, that sounds like it could work. I think I’ll have to build a shower stall and tile it though. I don’t think a prefab will fit right.”

They discussed the details for a while until Khalil asked Obi to draw up another plan for him, with a cost projection and materials he’d like to use. When Obi said goodbye with a wave and the screen went back to the Skype home page, Khalil started to grin like a maniac and couldn’t stop.

_The Winstons <MarcWinston&Fam@gmail.com> 11:27 PM  
to Kal _

_YOU’RE LETTING HIM MOVE INTO YOUR HOUSE?!? Do you see me giving you The Look again? Because it should be burning a damn hole in your head right now. Oh, wait, that already happened and it let your brains leak out and that explains why you made such a dumb decision. This is worse than you badgering your congressional rep to bring those kids to Bethesda for prosthetics and then trying to adopt one of them. God, Kal, you are such a sucker. I mean, he’s a nice a kid, and I understand he’s been a huge help, and you feel sorry for him, but you don’t just let virtual strangers move into your attic and renovate it to live in. That sounds like the beginning of a bad horror movie, or a pedo grooming his prey. It’s a good thing he’s of age and I know you. I mean, what could go wrong? Oh, I dunno. Meth lab? Crack house? House party for 150? There go your nice rugs! Did you at least put him on your insurance in case he burns the house down?_

_Fucking lunatic._

_Marc_

_Col. K.L. Cahill, U.S. Army (ret.) <KLCahill@gmail.com> 6:49 AM  
to Marc _

_Blahblahblahblahblah … hearditbefore … Why, no, I hadn’t put him on the insurance. Excellent point. I’ll get right on that. Blahblahblah…you’vebeensherifftoolong … blahblahblah_ 😉

_XO,_

_Kal_

_The Winstons <MarcWinston&Fam@gmail.com> 12:32 PM  
to Kal _

_Love you too, asshole. Don’t say I didn’t tell you so._

_Marc_

_Obediah Kenner <ObediahKenner@gmail.com> 3:20 AM  
to Kal_

_Dear Kal,_

_Are you sure you want to do this?_

_Obi_

_Col. K.L. Cahill, U.S. Army (ret.) <KLCahill@gmail.com> 8:25 AM  
to Obediah Kenner_

_Dear Obi,_

_Yes. Go to sleep._  
  
Kal 

Obi got back to him the following week with a detailed cost sheet for the materials he proposed: drywall and Wonderboard; bamboo flooring for the main room; lumber for the stall and to frame a wall for the bath; a hollowcore interior door; window-mounted exhaust fan; tile for the stall and floor; a small, wall-hung water-efficient toilet; a small sink and a vanity; plumbing fixtures; light switches, plugs, and covers; nails and screws and plaster and caulk and grout and paint. The only fault Khalil could find was that Obi just wanted plain white tile in the shower stall. He countered with links to a couple of fancier choices, and they finally agreed on one Obi also liked but whose cost made him squirm but didn’t faze Khalil.

He also sent over interior shots of the house with the furniture in place and the rugs down that made Khalil anxious to get back. It looked like home and he was tired of the furnished apartment he’d been renting that didn’t. Weekly updates from the attic space started to flow in as well. By early March, it was done, and Khalil was finally ready to go home.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Khalil comes home for the first time in his adult life, with all its attendant anxieties, and finds surprises, presents, and old and new friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd. Correx and plot hole pointings out welcome.

Everything about the trip from Dublin felt different this time, from leaving the keys of his apartment and rental car with the appropriate people, to passing his excess baggage into the check-in gate, where the gate agent asked him how long his trip would be. “I’m going home,” Khalil said, and it felt strange and wonderful to say that. The night before, the regulars at his local pub had seen him off with a couple of rounds and the singing of songs about native sons leaving Ireland during the famine. They had sense enough to end it with a raucous Pogue’s tune, and sent him out the door feeling as if he was, indeed, starting a new life in a foreign land and would be missed. Of all the places his parents had lived, Dublin had seemed most like home, though he had been long gone from their orbit by the time they settled there. He’d often wondered if his mother’s home in Tehran before the revolution would have felt so.

The weirdness pursued him aboard the plane. Twenty years in the army and another ten in hotspots around the world had taught him how to sleep anywhere, especially on long flights, but he could not manage it somehow on this one. His stomach was full of butterflies and stayed that way long after they were in the air, though he had never been a nervous flyer, even when he knew he’d be jumping out of the plane later. Not even his relatively comfy first class seat and a jigger of good scotch helped. He was thankful he’d slept fairly well the night before, or he’d be looking at an overnight stay near the airport before venturing the long drive home. _Home._

The smooth, early morning touchdown brought the butterflies out in full force again and he could hardly wait to make it out of the plane, though he’d been through this airport numerous times, visiting Marc. His beat-up passport at the customs gate earned him a friendly “welcome home, sir,” that he’d never heard before, or at least didn’t remember, and he wondered if somehow he _looked_ like he was coming home. Carting so much luggage out to long-term parking felt weird and wrestling it into the tank felt weird. He’d always travelled light, with not much more than a duffle bag. Now he had four big suitcases all tagged with overweight charges, and his messenger bag holding his travel laptop, overnight necessities, and identity papers. At least he’d shipped his old footlocker on ahead. The tank bounced on its shocks as he heaved the suitcases into the rear.

As he always did, he made the trip in two stages, driving north to the bridge and his usual hotel, where he was welcomed like a long-lost son in the off season. The check-in agent gave him a room overlooking the beach, though at this time of year, no one was on it but a few hardy souls running or bundled up looking for driftwood and seaglass and Petoskey stones. There was still snow in patches on the ground here. He found a diner serving all-day breakfast and scarfed down the lumberjack special, then went back to his hotel for a nap. It was early evening by the time he woke again, and he took himself off for a superb dinner of fresh smelt dipped out of the lake that morning and deep-fried whole. He spent a few hours in the hotel bar, sipping overpriced scotch and watching the Stanley Cup playoffs. Sports had never been his thing, at least not American sports, but he was learning to appreciate hockey despite its brutality. Bulked up like the Michelin Man in padding, the players still managed to move with amazing speed and an almost balletic grace that was equally astonishing.

But the bar felt weird tonight too, as often as he’d been here. It wasn’t the loud, friendly pub he’d left in Dublin last night, or the hometown bar he’d visited with Marc, or even its usual crowded, bustling self in the high season. It was nearly empty tonight and it made him feel transient in a way he never had before, and anxious to get on with the trip. He felt like that Joni Mitchell song after a while. _He was sitting in the lounge of the Empire Hotel. / He was drinking for diversion / He was thinking for himself._ The only thing missing was the woman in lacy sleeves, propositioning him. Or anyone, for that matter.

Khalil had a sudden moment of panic and loneliness. What was he doing, settling down in the boondocks where his chances of any kind of relationship beyond friendship were slim? He should have parked himself in New York or Chicago or DC, or even Dublin—any of the other big cities he’d known and loved around the world, really.

Where he could be old and anonymous and lonely, instead of among friends. _Don’t be an asshole._

He shook himself, finished his drink and went upstairs. Between the earlier nap, the time change and the butterflies, sleep was a long time coming.

The first thing he noticed was the new mailbox in hunter green with the house number on it in neat white paint outlined in copper and a string of reflectors down the post. Khalil turned in to the muddy driveway with a renewed sense of both excitement and relief. He’d gotten over his doubts of the night before about the choice he’d made, and realized it was only natural to freak out about such a big step. Sliding a bit in the mud of his own driveway and thankful for the tank’s 4-wheel drive, he thought he’d have to get a load of gravel in here or pave it this summer. And now the tank would need both a wash and a new paint job. But not before he cut back some of the brush along the drive that was coming into leaf and flower and whipping against the sides of the SUV. Maybe he’d put in a stone border… They were such pleasantly ordinary, homeowner kinds of thoughts that he laughed. It would be okay. Of course it would.

After another twist in the drive, the foliage fell back into a wide clearing and the house came into view, the cedar shakes weathered a soft gray, one side of the black shingled roof covered in solar collection arrays, rain barrels still collecting water from the handmade copper roof gutters. He was surprised to see the lawn, such as it was, sprouting purple and white crocuses everywhere, interspersed with snowdrops, the flowers pushing up from under a carpet of last fall’s leaves. He wondered why Obi hadn’t raked them, but he wasn’t much inclined to do so himself when they were full of flowers.

He parked the tank near the front porch steps and turned off the ignition, sighing. _Home._ The first he’d had in a very long time. Really since he’d left the diplomatic quarters in India for Cambridge. All the postings he’d had never felt like home, whether army or diplomatic. They were always someone else’s choices, someone else’s furniture, official quarters, sparse or elaborate as the employer went, and always, always temporary. Dynamite could not make him move again. He and Marc would get a chance to go fly fishing again. Marc could teach him how to snowshoe and cross-country ski. He’d get to see his goddaughters maybe enough to actually get to know them. There were surely holiday dinners in his future as well. Beyond that lay endless possibilities. And hopefully a chance to heal, finally, from the accumulated pains of war and violence.

Some slight movement in his peripheral vision made him look up from his hands on the wheel to the doorway, and there stood Obi on the porch, smiling nervously. He felt himself break into a answering lopsided smile. There was this young man to launch into life, too. What a pleasure that would be. _All the fun, none of the orthodontic costs,_ Marc would say, as he had said before about Khalil’s goddaughters. He popped the locks and got out.

“Good morning!” he said. It certainly felt like one, despite the overnight flight and long drive. “Thank you for holding down the fort for me for so long. You’re a changed man from the one who tried to shoot me the last time I was here.” And he was. In the last six months, the filthy, wild, underfed boy had filled out and muscled up, and let his hair grow from the regulation scalping to a tidy mop of soft copper. Even the scruff was gone. He wore creased jeans that rode low on his hips, workboots, and a tucked-in paisley buttondown in pastel colors for the occasion. Despite his nervousness at seeing his employer again, he held himself with that same mature confidence that Khalil had admired at their first meeting. Cleaned up and well fed, he was an attractive young man. _That way lies madness, old man. Mind your libido._ Oh, but he was glad to see this lad!

“A pleasure, sir—Kal. Damn, I cannot get used to that. And did I ever apologize for taking that potshot at you? Sorry. I really just wanted to scare you off. Do you want to look around outside first or inside or can I help you with your lug—I’m babbling. Sorry. I do that when I’m nervous. Welcome home, Kal.” He grinned again, flushing a little. Marc was right. He was charming. Then he realized what Obi had said. _Welcome home._

“That sounds fantastic,” Khalil said, smiling, his heart lighter than it had felt in years, decades. “Especially coming from you.” And that was oddly true. Khalil walked up the steps and slung his arm around Obi’s shoulders. There was a tiny, reflexive flinch and a little awkwardness that spoke of touch starvation as Khalil gestured toward the door. “Show me around this home thing, would you, sir? It’s all a little new to me, having one. Luggage can wait.”

Obi grinned at him and pushed the door open, stepping away from Khalil’s friendly embrace. It felt like a loss, somehow. Khalil tamped down the feeling viciously. “Right this way, sir,” Obi said, bowing him into his own home as he had into the shed so many months ago, but without the rancor. There was a teasing undertone to his words and mischievous quirk to his smile instead.

The house he stepped into was indeed full of light and looked nothing like it had. The two big rust-patinaed steel I-beams that now supported the upper storeys gave it what would have been an almost industrial air if not for Khalil’s comfortable furnishings and warm antique carpets. A large and well worn whiskey-colored leather tuxedo sofa faced the mammoth fieldstone hearth that ran the length of what had been the separate living room. Two similarly colored and worn leather club chairs flanked it with small tables and stained glass-shaded floor lamps on either side. The small tables were intaglio pieces he’d found in Italy on leave. The coffee table was embossed and pierced silver metalwork he’d picked up in a bazaar in Tunisia. All of it had been shipped to storage in Dublin. He hadn’t seen any of it in a decade or more. Some, like the rugs and sofa and lamps, and the big four-poster bed he knew was upstairs, had belonged to his parents, and seemed like old friends. By contrast, the large flatscreen over the fireplace was something new that Obi had suggested.

“It looks good, doesn’t it?” Obi said, beaming. “Cozy and welcoming without being overbearing.”

Khalil raised an eyebrow at him. “You sound like an interior decorator.”

Obi flushed again. “I had a secret love of _Architectural Digest._ I used to read it in the town library.”

“Did you, now? And you picked up the building skills from your father, I imagine.”

“I did. Probably the only decent gift he ever gave me,” Obi said darkly. The smile disappeared and Khalil felt a twinge in his own heart.

He put a hand on Obi’s shoulder and shook him a little. “You’ve made it your own now, and you don’t owe him anything.”

Obi managed a weak smile. “No, you’re right. But, hey, this is your homecoming. Don’t let me spoil it. Here we have your new kitchen, sir,” Obi said, rallying and sweeping his hand in the direction of the area in question. “With the new counter and countertop and barstools, and the hanging pot rack you had me order. The cupboards and drawers are freshly refinished but mostly empty though. There seems to be a distinct lack of cooking equipment and dishes.”

Khalil looked puzzled for a moment, then smacked his forehead, laughing. “Jayzus, you’re right! What a thing to forget, and I did, utterly. I never had much to begin with, even though I like to cook, because I was always moving. It disappears over the years when you move as much as I do. Did. I’ll have to start fresh.” He shook his head. “You can help me pick them out.”

“I wouldn’t know where to start, honestly,” Obi said. “Cooking was women’s work in my family and I can just barely make toast.”

“I’m sure you know what horse manure that is, that nonsense about ‘women’s work,’” Khalil said with a look like he’d bitten into something foul. “If you have to eat, you should know how to cook your own food. Like you should know how to do your own laundry, sew on a button, mend a seam, and fend for yourself in life. Holy Mother of God, what tripe.”

Obi shrugged. “It’s just the way I grew, up. I didn’t say I agreed. I can hunt, and dress a carcass, and smoke and preserve it,” Obi assured him, “but that’s all. I’d like to learn to cook. It always seemed a lot like chemistry to me.”

“That’s a good analogy. Baking especially, which I don’t do much of for that reason. It’s finicky precise and I’m not. But cooking, yes. I’d be happy to teach you. I’ve got some learning to do myself in that area, just because I haven’t had time to do it. Some cookbooks might be in order for both of us. We’ll get in some basic equipment tomorrow.” He brushed a hand over the slate. “They did a nice job sealing this, though I imagine it won’t take long to get that lovingly used look of red wine and coffee rings.”

Obi cocked his head. “That’s what you’re going for? I can definitely help with that, but you’ll have to get a coffeemaker first. Do the barstools have a story? They’re all different.”

Khalil gave a lopsided smile. “Several stories. Just don’t ask Marc about them. They’re all from bars we got thrown out of at various postings. Or at least the ones I liked. I always went back the next day and paid for damages, if possible or necessary, and asked them to sell me a barstool as a memento. The usual response I got was ‘crazy American,’ but nobody balked at selling me a stool.” He spun one gently. “Haven’t seen these in a long time either. Let’s see, this one’s from Rome, this one from Munich, this one from Tunis, and this one’s from Barcelona.”

“Oh, Barcelona! I’ve always wanted to go there ever since I saw pictures of Gaudi’s church!” Obi’s eyes lit up. “You’ve got stuff from all over the world. How many countries have you been in?” he asked Khalil, sounding wistful as he leaned against the counter, elbows back and hands curling around the edges. It was a loose and easy posture that made him look like he belonged there. Khalil found he liked that idea.

“I’ve lost count now. Most of Europe and the Middle East though. Japan, Korea, Thailand, Okinawa. Not all places I was stationed, or worked in; I like to travel when I’m in a new part of the world. My parents were diplomats, so I grew up in a few different countries, too: Canada, Switzerland, India. Went to college in England. Oddly enough, I haven’t seen that much of the US, and I’d like to.”

“Me too,” Obi-Wan said, still sounding wistful. “I always wanted to see different parts of the world and the country.”

“And get the hell out of here, I imagine,” Khalil observed.

Obi shrugged. “Not necessarily. I like it here, in this area. Just not my family.”

Khalil nodded. “I can understand that. It’s pretty country. Marc has always loved it here too. I hope the two of you will show me what you love about it.”

“Happy to. I’ll trade you for cooking lessons. Speaking of which, over here we have the dining room with the biggest dang table I’ve ever seen outside pictures of English Great House banquet halls. And all the chairs match!”

Khalil laughed. “Yes, they do. Mama would not have had it otherwise. This was her table, at which many an ambassador and ranking official was entertained over the course of 40 years of diplomatic service. She always insisted on this monster rather than the government furniture. It’s got a long history too, though on my da’s side. It’s from his family home in County Kerry—which _was_ a Great House. This has been in storage since they moved to the flat in Dublin, when they retired. I imagine most of this was pretty musty when they unpacked it.”

“It was,” Obi admitted. “But it smelled like history. It had quite a while to air out, too.”

Khalil pulled out one of the Chippendale chairs, brushing a hand over the ornately carved back. “I should get these reupholstered. The yellow jacquard is so faded now.”

“That gives them character,” Obi said. “Like the coffee rings on your new counter. So you like stuff that looks lived-in? Old stuff? Antiques?”

Khalil nodded, looking a little misty eyed with this rare excursion into his history. “And finely crafted handmade things. I grew up with mostly antiques from both sides of the family, and British embassy furniture, which is always old and fussy. That feels like home to me.” He surveyed the new great room again. “This looks like it could be home.”

Obi reached out and patted him on the back a little awkwardly, leaving a tingle between Khalil’s shoulders. “I’m glad,” he said. “And thank you for allowing me to share it with you.”

Khalil smiled that lopsided smile again. “And that’s my pleasure. Speaking of which, I’d love to see your space, if you don’t mind. Don’t feel obligated though. I fully intend to respect your privacy.”

“No, that’s fine. I mean, I’m just a tenant and you’ve got rights to your own house, for Pete’s sake. And I’m kind of proud of it, too.”

They climbed up to the second floor hallway where the trap for the attic stairs resided. Obi unlooped the pull from the hook and pulled the folding stairs down. They’d clearly been polished and oiled and moved almost soundlessly. They also sported new safety treads. Obi waved Khalil on ahead of him and climbed up behind, almost bumping into his landlord when Khalil stopped just short of the top.

“Oh, Obi, I’m impressed,” he said, then realized he was standing in the middle of the steps. “Sorry, let me get out of the way.”

He stepped up and into a room almost as large as the first floor, but with a lower ceiling and several alcoves where the dormers were. The pitch of the roof was steep, and it was only in the dormers and center of the room where Khalil could stand comfortably. Obi, however, had use of most of the room except nearest the edges. The area around the trapdoor was outlined on all four sides by a darkly stained wooden bannister and handrail, the front of which was hinged and ran on a caster and latched shut like a gate. Tucked into one of the less accessible corners of the room, it didn’t take up much space, leaving the rest of the room open. Obi closed the gate behind him once they were both standing in the room. “Smart safety precaution,” Khalil commented approvingly.

They’d chosen a dark-stained bamboo flooring to match the downstairs, and even a cursory glance showed it was competently installed. One dormer alcove held a small kitchenette with a toaster oven, small coffeemaker, and a bar sink mounted in counter height cupboards with a tiled countertop. The second dormer on that wall had been walled in to create the bathroom. Another held a deep chair-and-a-half that was clearly secondhand but well cared for, and a wall-mounted brass swing lamp. Another held a twin mattress on a frame piled high with colorful pillows and a puffy electric blue comforter, and another swing lamp. A small gateleg table with two wooden folding chairs sat near the kitchenette alcove, and a large, bright rag rug covered a big portion of the rest of the floor. Around the outside of the room, where roof met walls, Obi had built freestanding bookcases filled with his former insulation.

The knockout feature was the paint job though. It started as a soft gray at the floor and on the bookcases, gradually becoming a blue ombre sky darkening to near black at the peak of the roof. Obi put a plug in the wall and a web of twinkling lights strung across the darkest part came on.

“That is … fantastic, Obi,” Khalil said admiringly. “It makes the whole space seem so much taller. Brilliant.” Obi-Wan beamed at the praise. “This is really cozy too, and cheerful. How do you like it?”

“I have to admit I really love it. It, uh, it feels like home.” He sounded guilty when he said it and that gave Khalil a pang; after all, he’d been instrumental in taking the lad’s home away. “And that’s just weird, considering it’s the house I grew up in, and I never felt at home here.”

In a sense, Khalil realized, they had both been homeless for most of their lives, he voluntarily and Obi due to the luck of the genetic draw. What a thing to have in common, he thought.

“Hey, after all that negotiation about that bathroom, you need to have a look at it,” Obi insisted, opening the door.

Khalil stepped in and opened the glass half door to the stall. “Very nicely done,” he said approvingly, and it was. Thin strips of blue-green glass tile glimmered in a vertical pattern from floor to ceiling and spilled across the small hexagonal white and blue floor tiles outside the stall’s sill in a trailing pattern, mimicking an overflow of water. It was also scattered across the painted wall above the tiny sink and vanity.

“It was so expensive I wanted to use all of it. There’s some of it on top of the kitchen counter too.”

“That’s lovely, Obi. You do excellent work, my friend. I hope you’re taking pictures for a portfolio.”

Obi seemed startled by the idea. “I, uh, I hadn’t thought of that. I haven’t actually given much thought to what work I want to do.”

“That’s something we could talk about later, if you like,” Khalil offered, unable to stop himself. Marc had frequently accused him of suffering from compulsory mentoring syndrome. _Never saw a potential student you didn’t like._

Obi looked surprised and then grateful. “I would like that, thanks. I suppose I ought to start thinking about it.”

“I know you’re here, you bastard! Your car’s outside!” came a bellow from below. Obi looked panicked all of a sudden and Khalil’s heart gave a little jump until they both recognized the voice.

“Marc,” they both said at once and laughed. Khalil, feeling suddenly like it was his birthday and he was twelve again, slid down the steel handrails on both hands and threw himself down the stairs to the first floor while Obi followed at a more dignified pace, closing the trapdoor once again and parking himself on the steps far enough down that he could observe but not get in the way. By the time he’d sat himself down, Marc and Khalil were stepping out of their back-pounding embrace and Khalil was slipping directly into a warm hug from Adi.

“Welcome home, Kal,” Adi said, kissing his cheek, even though she had to stretch to do so. “We’re so glad you’re here, finally.” She was a handsome, confident woman, a warm and serene presence who tempered Marc’s scowling pessimism. Khalil had never seen his friend smile or laugh so much as he had on their wedding day. Their relationship had made Marc a different person, one Khalil had come to cherish. Khalil wondered if he would ever find someone to bring out what he’d hidden away too.

But right now, he was merely glad to see them both. Their arrival prompted another brief tour of the house, this time including the second floor, which held an unrenovated bathroom, and a large and small bedroom, which Khalil intended to eventually renovate into a master suite and office.

“Holy crap that’s a big bed, Kal,” Marc observed. “you could get at least three other people in there besides your big ass.”

“I actually had it trimmed down from its original size. It’s only a California king now, instead of the obscene monstrosity it was. Da used to call it the baronial orgy bed. And my ass is not big. I’m just taller than you are and you can’t stand it.”

Adi rolled her eyes. “Boys, please,” she said, but without really meaning it. She hadn’t seen Kal quite this giddy since their wedding reception. It looked good on him.

“Let me show you—” he began, looking around in puzzlement. “Where’s Obi?”

“I think I saw him heading upstairs,” Adi said.

“Hang on,” Khalil said, looking a little annoyed and leaving Adi and Marc in the bedroom. The steps to the attic were down, so he poked his head up just above the floor level, like a gopher. Obi burst into laughter and Khalil grinned, aware of how funny it must look. “What are you doing up here?”

“I thought you’d want some time with your friends,” Obi responded from his chair, where he was curled up with a book. “I don’t have to be the center of attention all the time.”

“Good to know,” Khalil replied, a little exasperated. “But you don’t have to hide from your own friends just because I’m here either.”

“Oh. Well, er,” Obi stuttered. “I just—”

“Do you mind if I show them what you’ve done up here? You’re free to stay no.”

Obi flushed then. “They’ve already see it,” he mumbled, looking embarrassed. “Marc helped me get the bigger pieces of furniture up here. And Adi’s been helping me shop for groceries and clothes, since I don’t have a car yet.”

Khalil looked surprised, then pleased. “Oh, okay. That’s great, though. I’m glad they’ve been helping you out. Come down then, and socialize a bit. If you’d like.”

“You go. I’ve had a lot more time with them than you have, recently. I’ll join you later.”

“You know you’re welcome…” Khalil said, coaxing.

Obi smiled and nodded. “Yeah, I know. Thanks. Go. You’ll get your fill of me.”

 _Doubtful,_ said the little voice in the back of his head. A little perplexed, Khalil nodded and headed back down the stairs to find Adi and Marc watching him. “Well, I was going to ask if you wanted a tour of Obi’s space, but he informs me you’ve already seen it. I take it you were checking to see he wasn’t building a meth lab, Sheriff,” Khalil said wryly.

Adi laughed. “You know how suspicious he is. We’re all potential criminals in his mind now.”

Khalil gave his friend a pointed look. “Precisely why ex-military should never go into law enforcement,” he said, poking an ongoing argument they’d been having ever since Marc told him he was running for sheriff. “By the way, told you so.”

Marc made a horrible face and surreptitiously flipped him off where Adi couldn’t see. Khalil burst into laughter. He couldn’t seem to stop that today. He was brimming with it. _Home! And friends! And home!_

He ended up spending the afternoon with Adi and Marc, who helped him unload his luggage, took him out to lunch when they discovered there was no food in his cupboards or refrigerator, then took him shopping for that and the basics of of kitchen implements. He picked out a few coffee mugs but was going to settle for paper plates for now, saying he wanted to find a pottery shop that did nice work and order a set of dishes from them. Adi did talk him into a few open stock pieces and a cheap basic set of cutlery by saying he could pass it on to Obi when he found something he liked better, later. By far the most important purchase, however, was the new espresso maker and the discovery of a local roaster. For purposes of continuing life, it was even more important than the groceries, to his mind.

Marc ragged him for carrying it into the house like a babe in arms then helped him set it up with a connection to the incoming water supply. He was pretty certain Obi could make a neater job of it later, but for now there would be caffeine on demand.

Before they went home to their own dinner, Marc pulled one last thing from his own SUV and handed it to Khalil. He opened the velvet gift bag to find a fifth of Bushmill’s 16-year-old single malt.

“Oh, that’s nice,” Khalil crooned, getting his Irish on. “Who’s a good lad?” Then a horrible thought struck him. “I’ve got no glasses!” he wailed.

“Well, it’s a good thing Marc and I thought of that,” Obi said from halfway down the stairs, two very nice crystal rocks glasses clutched in one hand. He handed them over to Khalil with a grin.

He wrapped his arms around their shoulders and pulled both men close, bottle in one hand and glasses in the other. “Here’s to good friends.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas day comes with secrets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd.
> 
> Scary mean words, description of violence.
> 
> I'm a Cishet straight woman trying to be a good ally so if I get something wrong, please let me know.
> 
> Help me. I can't stop writing. I'm a woman possessed.

Thanks to the jetlag and his own nature, Khalil was up with the sun. Though the drive and the shopping excursion and the pleasure of seeing his friends again had made him pleasantly tired fairly early, it had taken a while to fall asleep on the new mattress in the new/old bed in the new room in the new house, again despite his many years of being able to literally fall asleep standing up. He was still as excited as a little kid anticipating Christmas morning. Last night had indeed felt very much like Christmas Eve. This morning felt like Christmas morning. He wondered how long that would last.

He padded downstairs in bare feet, appreciating the warm floors, poked the fire to life and fed it, and headed straight for the little red Breville on the counter, indulging in the familiar rituals of coffee preparation and downing his espresso shot while putting on a pot of the regular stuff. He had a feeling he’d need it. His days in Dublin had been full of rearranging his financial affairs, extricating himself from work obligations, selling the flat, saying goodbye to friends and parts of the city he loved, and planning the final details of the move. There was still some of that to finish up, but now a new set of tasks was presenting itself, ones that he was unfamiliar with, but that he anticipated with pleasure. He’d been surprised at how deeply satisfying crafting a home for himself had become. But he found what he anticipated most was getting to know Obi in person.

They’d talked for some time after Marc and Adi had left for home, through the salmon steaks he’d made, the clean-up afterwards—all of it observed closely by Obi—and the consumption of a few jiggers of the Bushmill’s. Though leery, Obi had agreed to try some for the sake of friendship.

“I grew up in a dry house: no caffeine, no liquor, no stimulants of any kind, even the natural ones. So this is all new to me,” Obi told him, holding his glass like it might bite him. Khalil had given him less than a finger’s worth. “Adi and Marc introduced me to coffee. I still can’t figure out why it doesn’t taste like it smells, but I like it.”

“It’s chameleon stuff that way,” Khalil agreed. “Da and I were the tea drinkers in the house because Mama used to make the Persian version of Turkish coffee, which is even more hardcore than army coffee. There was no tea in the U.S. Army, so I took up coffee in self-defense. Then I went to Italy and discovered espresso and I was hooked. I’ve come to appreciate the Turkish coffee now, too, but espresso and this,” he said, holding up his glass, “are the waters of life.”

Khalil had walked him through the fine points of imbibing and enjoying good whiskey and settled in to enjoy his own, and Obi’s company.

During the course of their conversation, Khalil sometimes found himself forgetting he was speaking with an 18-year-old who’d been isolated from society for most of his short life. Obi was less like the shiny new fresh-out-of-high-school recruits he’d met and more like one of the Special Forces grads: knowledgeable, mature for his age, sardonic, even a little cynical. There were odd gaps in his knowledge that were sometimes jolting, mostly involving popular culture, and he had the charming tic of mispronouncing some of the words in his extensive vocabulary. Clearly it was a readers’ vocabulary, and Khalil’s estimation of Obi’s parents took another hit; it was obvious they had a highly intelligent son, and they had just thrown him away. That infuriated Khalil all over again.

When Khalil was yawning, Obi was still bright-eyed and he suspected the lad of being a night owl. That might be awkward. He shrugged mentally as he said goodnight and took himself off to bed. They’d work it out.

This morning, Khalil was sure of the fact. Obi stumbled downstairs in sweats and a rumpled T-shirt hours after Khalil had been up and dressed and breakfasted, hair charmingly awry and bleary-eyed. He stopped short at the bottom of the stairs as though just remembering that Khalil was in residence.

“Oh, sorry, I’ll—”

“It’s fine,” Khalil said with a smile. “Come have a seat.” He was sitting at the kitchen bar near the window with his heavily armored field laptop and a cup of coffee. Obi slithered onto a barstool at the far end, and yawned into his hands.

“I should give you back your other laptop,” he said. “I don’t know when to turn it off.”

“Ah, the joys of the internet. More distracting than TV. Coffee?”

“Yes, please,” Obi replied, sounding as grateful as a thirsty man at an oasis. “I think I’ve become addicted to this stuff.”

“A definite possibility.” Khalil smiled lopsidedly and got up to pour Obi a cup, setting cream and sugar and a spoon in front of him too. When it was fully doctored, the lad wrapped his hands around the cup and took his first sip with the bliss of a true addict. Khalil laughed. “Yep, I’d say you’ve got that particular monkey firmly attached to your back.”

Obi looked like he was filing that phrase away for future research. “This is even better with cream. Why didn’t I think of that?”

“The Thais make it with sweetened condensed milk. That’s better iced, though, I think.” He went back to his laptop and let Obi enjoy his coffee in peace. He’d met enough night owls to know they didn’t appreciate conversation before they were ready for it, and mostly weren’t capable of it anyway. Marc was one of them too, and had often accused Khalil of having an on/off switch somewhere that made him instantly awake and functioning in the morning, and repeatedly assured him it was a disgusting trait.

“I didn’t mean to intrude on you,” Obi said after he’d gotten through about half of his cup. “I’m just so used to no one but me being here, and having the run of the house.”

“No reason that can’t continue,” Khalil said in a deliberately unconcerned tone. “It’s not as though there’s a private stairway to your room from outside. I take it you haven’t been using the kitchen, because there’s been nothing in it to use, but that can change too, now. I’ll have it fully equipped soon and you were wanting cooking lessons. We’ve both got to eat.”

“I’m pretty sure you didn’t plan on having a roommate when you bought this place,” Obi said cautiously.

“No, but I’m not unhappy about it,” Khalil replied. “I’m used to having people around and living with them in much closer quarters than this. But maybe making some ground rules wouldn’t hurt.”

Obi’s shoulders loosened up a little. “That sounds like a good idea. You start, since it’s your house.”

“All right, but if you object to something, say so. We can negotiate.” Obi nodded. “Okay, Rule Number One: No meth cooking on the premises.” Obi nearly snorted his coffee and broke into laughter.

“I’m sure Marc will be glad to hear that’s a priority of yours,” he said, grinning. “I’ll be sure to confine it to the shed then.”

“See that you do,” Khalil said with a mock-stern nod. “Hmmm, ah, this seems obvious to me, but I grew up this way: shoes off in the house, in deference to the rugs. I’ll get some door mats and a shoe rack.”

“Okay. I like being barefoot anyway.”

“Me too. Your turn.”

“Me? Oh, okay. I’m not sure I can think of anything, really. I mean, you already said you’d respect my privacy, and that’s about all that’s really important.”

“Let’s codify it then, like the meth cooking and the shoes rules. We stay out of each other’s rooms, without invitations.”

“That goes for your office too, I imagine,” Obi said.

“Less so, since you’re also working for me. I’ll lock up whatever I feel is private. How’s that?”

“Makes sense. What about the laptops?”

“Password protected areas—no, let me rethink that. There are things on this one that you don’t have a security clearance for, so I think I’ll get us another laptop for house business exclusively.”

“Why not just use the one you bought before you left?”

“You’ve had it long enough that I just think of it as yours. I think you should keep it.”

Obi looked startled. “I—wow, that’s not a cheap gift. You’re sure?”

Khalil smiled. “Just say ‘thank you.’”

“Thank you, sir,” Obi said solemnly.

“You’re welcome. I feel sure there are things in the browser history now that you’d rather I didn’t see.”

“Browser history?” Obi said uneasily.

“I keep forgetting this is your first foray into the World Wide Web. I can teach you a bit more about Internet security, later.”

“It’s not actually my first foray onto the internet,” Obi informed him. “I’ve been using it for a few years, though my parents didn’t know, and I didn’t have access after they left. I went to the library whenever my folks got into town, and the librarian, Mrs. Newsome, showed me quite a lot. But this is the first time I’ve had regular access, ever. So, yeah, I could use whatever you can show me. Thanks.”

“And blessings on Mrs. Newsome’s head,” Khalil added, pleased to hear somebody else had helped this boy out.

Obi smiled fondly. “She really spoiled me. Caught me reading all the _National Geographic_ s and kept feeding me books and getting magazine subscriptions for me, like _Architectural Digest_. I don’t think anyone read it but me. I could be wrong, though.”

“Did anyone try to help you after your parents left?” Khalil asked, treading carefully.

“Not really,” Obi-Wan shrugged with that forced nonchalance that meant it really hurt. “Just Marc, and I thought he wanted to haul me off to foster care, which I _didn’t_ want. I thought that’s who you were; that’s why I took the potshot at you. I think most people thought I left with my parents. They weren’t exactly friendly people, and I wasn’t in school, so who would know better? Nobody but Marc and the real estate agents ever came out here to look around. It was too late, then.”

Khalil reached across the space separating them and squeezed his shoulder. “I’m so sorry, lad. That should never have happened to you.”

Obi took a deep breath and looked over at him, Khalil’s hand still on his shoulder. “Do you know why they left?”

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” Khalil said.

“No, you should know. You should know what you’re living with.” Khalil winced inwardly at the self-loathing he heard there. He’d struggled with it himself at that age and knew all too acutely what it felt like. He was silent while Obi steeled himself, his hand never leaving Obi’s shoulder, until finally, the lad blurted out, “they left because they couldn’t stand being in the same house with a faggot!” The rest of the story spilled out of him like vomit, uncontrollable and sour and vile. “My father overheard me telling my mother I thought I was—that I thought I was gay, and he literally picked me up and threw me out of the house, then followed me into the yard and kicked the shit out of me. My mother tried to stop him and he hit her too, with his fist, and knocked her down, screamed at her for giving birth to a faggot, then went back to kicking the shit out of me. I don’t know how I got to my feet or over to his truck or got the rifle off the rack but I did. I just remember cocking it and pointing it at him and telling him if he touched me again, I’d kill him. Then everything froze for, I dunno, seemed like forever, before he came after me again and I—I shot him.” The last three words were squeezed out of him with barely enough breath to carry them. “And then I ran.”

Khalil’s heart sped up in that quick adrenalin rush he used to feel in combat. He tamped it down with a few deep breaths. “What happened then, lad,” he said quietly, giving Obi’s shoulder another squeeze.

“I ran,” he said again. “I took the rifle with me and I ran. Into the woods. Down one of the trails behind the house. I—I lost some time then. The next thing I remember was waking up in the Nikkari’s hunting camp, on the floor of their cabin. I don’t know how long I was there. I hurt so much. I think he broke a couple of my ribs and I was pissing blood for a while. My face was all swollen, and my knuckles, so I must have gotten in a couple of good ones on him, too. I don’t know how long I was gone. Maybe a couple of days. By the time I got back, they were gone, the whole house was empty, except for some of the canned food in the basement, the oldest stuff. I found a box of ammo for the rifle tucked back under some old newspaper in one of the cupboards. I’m pretty sure my mother left all that. It wasn’t much, but it got me through a couple of months. Everything else was just—gone. I don’t even know if he’s still alive.”

“You know your father’s still alive, lad. You couldn’t have hurt him very badly, if you hurt him at all.”

Obi looked up at him, eyes red, face flushed, on the verge of tears. “How do you know?”

“I’ve got his signature on the closing docs for the house. Here, wait a minute. I’ll get them.” Khalil left his stool, squeezed Obi’s shoulder in passing and took the stairs three at a time to his messenger bag in the bedroom. A minute later he was back with the documents, finding the signature pages for all of them and laying them out on the bar, earliest to most recent. “All the same, but different enough not to be forgeries,” he said calmly.

Obi stared at it as though he didn’t know what he was seeing. “I, I don’t know. I don’t know that I ever saw his signature on anything before.”

“If he hadn’t been there at the closing, the lawyers would have told me and this wouldn’t have gone through,” Khalil said patiently. “He held the title and no one else could sign it. And it had to be notarized, which means he had to be physically present and signing the document. Here. See?”

Obi looked, and finally seemed to actually see what Khalil was trying to show him. He took a deep breath and let it out in something not quite a sob, then then put his hands over his face. By the time he came up for air again, Khalil had put a steaming mug in front of him. “Drink up, boyo. You’ve had a bad shock and this is good for what ails you.” He expected coffee and got something else instead. “Tea,” Khalil said to his puzzled look. “Hot, sweet tea for a shock, if you don’t have brandy. We’ll replenish the bar later for future emergencies.”

Khalil sat down beside him and watched him drink it. The lad’s hands stopped trembling, finally, and he straightened up on his stool and turned to Khalil. Before he could say anything, Khalil held up a finger and gave him the same look Colonel Cahill gave one of his people who had fucked up.

“New rule, and mark it well: There will be no use of the word ‘faggot’ in this house, unless it is in an ironic or sarcastic manner, or in its non-colloquial meaning of ‘wood for burning,’ or as an endearment. Am I clear?”

A panoply of emotions crossed Obi’s face: confusion, surprise, relief, amusement, disgust. “Yes, sir,” he said, solemn once again. “But I am one. I can’t change that.”

Khalil shook his head. “No, lad, you’re not. You’re gay, or homosexual, or queer, or an out and proud fag, or whatever else _you_ decide to call _yourself_. But you are _not_ somebody else’s pejorative. Who you are sexually attracted to is nobody’s goddamned business but your own, and it doesn’t make you worth less than anyone else in the world. Get that through your head right now. I don’t care what anyone else told you, whether you share genetic code with them or not. Love is love. It is the most important thing in the word to share with another person, whoever that person is. Never be ashamed of that.”

Obi looked so confused that it was hard for Khalil not to laugh. “Wait, are you—”

“Aye, lad,” he replied his Irish coming out again, as though he were channeling his father. “Queer as they come. I’ve known since I was a few years younger than you are now. Probably about the same time you figured it out.”

“But you’re, you’re—”

“What? Retired Army? That’s why I retired. I knew I was never going to get any farther than colonel then, before ‘Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell’ was rescinded, no matter how good I was. It’s a bit different now, but I’m done with that.”

Obi looked like his head might explode, and Khalil did laugh then. “It was a bit easier for me, too. I came from people with power and money and prestige and that always greases the way no matter what you are. But I had drill sergeants and superior officers who were going to beat or torment the faggot out of me because they hated the faggot in themselves. Or they were just ignorant assholes. The mix was about even. That hatred for yourself and what you are can eat a person alive as fast as someone else’s hatred can. Faster. And make you a miserable person that no one wants to know. I won’t say that it’s easy to be queer now, but it’s a wee bit easier in some places. Don’t make it harder for yourself by hating what you can’t change.”

Khalil watched as the tears started down Obi’s cheeks. He cupped the lad’s face in his hands and wiped them away with his thumbs, then pulled him gently into a hug. Obi’s arms went around him like a drowning man’s. “It’s all right now. You’re safe here, lad,” Khalil murmured, rubbing his back. “Safe, and loved and respected. Just don’t go cooking meth in that den of iniquity upstairs.”

Obi laughed raggedly and leaned back out of Khalil’s embrace, wiping his eyes. “Yes, sir. Shoes off and no meth in the house.” He looked back up into Khalil’s eyes. “Thank you, Kal. Thanks for listening. And thanks for, thanks for not judging me.”

“Oh, I am judging you, lad. That close, you shouldn’t have missed!” Khalil got up from his stool and went around the counter. “You need food and I could do with some too. I’ll make us an old fashioned fry up, and then there are errands, Mr. Kenner. And I’ll need your help. Go get dressed while I’m doing this.”

Obi slid from his stool, saluted ironically, and went back upstairs.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Khalil and Obi iron out living together. Obi gets a new identity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear we're getting to the intimate cuddles. I swear.

The house took shape slowly over the next few weeks, and Obi discovered that his employer was a list-maker, fond of meticulous planning. In that spirit, Khalil came down to find the House Rules tacked to the fridge one morning:

  1. No cooking meth on the premises.
  2. Shoes off at the door.
  3. Entry to each other’s rooms by invitation only.
  4. No use of the word “faggot” except ironically or sarcastically, in its non-colloquial meaning, or as an endearment.



His response was merely an approving nod.

There were additions over the following weeks, as they learned each others quirks, or as new circumstances presented themselves.

It became clear after only a few days together that they did not need a rule about cleaning up after themselves as it was an innate trait in both. Not sharing a bath no doubt added to the harmony, there being no toothpaste caps or tubes to disagree about. But both Khalil and Obi were scrupulous about putting dishes in the dishwasher, not leaving clothing lying around, and wiping up after themselves in the kitchen. The office was soon put in order and stayed that way. Obi’s woodshop was equally tidy and clean, swept daily when in use, tools cleaned and oiled after each use.

  1. Hands off each others tools without permission and prior training in their usage. 
    1. No operating said tools in a sleep-deprived or inebriated state.



That went up after Obi started to buy power tools for woodworking, but applied equally to the cooking implements and small appliances Khalil was purchasing. Teaching Obi to make coffee in all its glorious forms was an early priority, a skill he deeply appreciated learning. The day Khalil not only trusted him with Breville but praised his espresso was a happy milestone to both of them.

It wasn’t long before packages began to arrive and the pot rack above the bar was populated with an array of cookware. Obi began to learn their names and functions as Khalil began to cook more. The cookbooks also began to arrive.

“This is like food porn,” Obi said, leafing through one he’d bought himself featuring a gazillion types of sushi. “I’ve never even eaten this stuff and it all looks so good.”

Khalil laughed. “Is that why you bought it? Because it looked good?”

“Yes. I can’t even pronounce half of these, but I love fish. I never got much seafood when I was with my parents. All those crustaceans were “unclean” according to my father. We only ate fin fish: trout, walleye, coho, smelt, bass, or pike. Stuff that we’d catch. The first time I had shrimp—when Adi took me to Red Lobster—I thought I’d died and gone to heaven.”

“And that’s not even the good stuff. Have you had actual lobster yet?”

Obi shook his head. “Just shrimp. I couldn’t get enough of it.”

Khalil grinned. “I know exactly what you mean. One of my favorite things in the world is a fresh lobster roll and a good IPA. I took a trip to Maine with another friend a few years ago and I had to have some kind of lobster every single day we were there. I couldn’t get enough of it, either. But sushi is an entirely different matter. Just the knife skills involved.” He shook his head. “Watching a good sushi chef is a treat in itself.”

“Speaking of which, if I didn’t have a really nice hunting knife of my own, I might be having knife envy of that set you bought.”

Khalil narrowed his eyes. “Don’t be thinking you’ll be dressing deer with my kitchen knives. Or throwing them. I saw you doing that in your woodshop the other day.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Obi said innocently.

Khalil floated the idea of making Sunday dinners for Adi and Marc, which Obi enthusiastically supported, with a reservation.

“We need more plates and stuff, if you’re going to cook for people,” he reminded Khalil.

“Good point. Would you care to help me pick them out?”

They took a trip to the studio shops of a couple of local potters and found one who was making glaze patterns that looked like NASA’s photos of the swirling surface of Jupiter. Obi was entranced and Khalil bought several serving plates and platters and bowls in the pattern but decided he didn’t want to wait for a whole service after all. Obi bought himself and Khalil each a beautiful mug that matched. For the actual dinnerware, they wound up with a blue-on-blue Moroccan-patterned stoneware sturdy enough for the dishwasher, that picked out the blues in the serving dishes. A set of unremarkable stainless cutlery followed. The open stock that Khalil had purchased the first day moved into Obi’s kitchenette, as Adi had suggested.

“What? No fine china and silver spoons?” Obi teased.

Khalil made a face. “I ate off so much of that in the embassies that it was a relief to start eating in the mess hall, like ordinary people. I swore my own table would never be that formal again. It’s handsome, no denying it, but it’s such an ostentatious indication of class and power. I doubt I’ll be entertaining any Canadian Prime Ministers any time soon, anyway. Mama would be appalled, but I like people to not be afraid of the plates, though I prefer they not play frisbee with them.”

  1. No playing frisbee with the plates. 
    1. No knife throwing in the house.



Obi suggested the intercom they installed on all three floors when Khalil complained that yelling up and down the stairs was uncivilized.

  1. No yelling in the house unless there’s an emergency.



He also suggested Khalil screen in the porch if he intended to use it in the summer. “You haven’t been here for the black flies and mosquitoes, have you?” he said. “That was dastardly of Marc not to warn you.”

So Khalil bought the materials and Obi helped him screen in the porch with only a week to spare before the flying devils and the state birds arrived to torment residents. But once the screens were up, and the table and chairs arrived, the porch was where Khalil was most likely to be found and he blessed Obi every day for enabling that.

“Needs a hammock,” Obi observed one morning over coffee. “Or a porch swing.”

“A porch swing would be fantastic,” Khalil agreed. “And some better lighting for night reading.”

“Tacky string lights for parties.”

“How tacky?” Khalil said suspiciously.

  1. No flamingoes. Anywhere.



They hung several strings of Edison bulb café lights in the porch eaves, alternating with strings of faux paper umbrellas and tiny faux paper lanterns for parties. “See? Not too tacky,” Obi teased. “You can turn on one set or the other or both.”

“No, not too tacky at all,” Khalil agreed, resting a companionable arm around his shoulders to observe their finished work in the dusk. “Kind of festive, actually. Just needs the swing now. Maybe you can teach me how to use some of your tools.”

So the porch swing became an apprenticeship for Khalil, under Obi’s supervision. He was inordinately proud of it when it was painted and hung. They tried it out together, swinging gently in the early evening breeze, chains creaking in a pleasant rhythm, Khalil with a glass of scotch and Obi with his new discovery: iced masala chai.

“All you need is a bug zapper now to complete the ambiance,” Obi observed, mouth trembling as he tried to hide a mischievous grin.

Khalil side-eyed him and then cuffed him gently on the back of the head, smiling. “Don’t push your luck, laddie. You already got tacky party lights.”

Marc and Adi came over for their first Sunday dinner and immediately fell in love with the porch too. But Marc nearly snorted beer out his nose when he caught sight of the house rules on the fridge.

“What kind of insane asylum are you running here, Cahill? Knife throwing and flamingoes and drunken tool usage—”

“Don’t forget the meth,” Obi said as he headed out to the porch with a platter.

Adi elbowed him. “You asked for that,” she said over the rim of her wine glass.

“I guess I did,” Marc acknowledged with a smile.

When the table was set and laden, Khalil pointed at each of the colorful dishes in turn. “ _Koresh-e Fesenjoon_ , chicken stew with pomegranate and walnuts. _Polo ba tahdig_ ‘bottom of the pot’ rice. _Mast-o khiar,_ cucumber and herb yogurt, in case the stew is too spicey or hot. And _salad-e Shirazi,_ cucumber, tomato and onion salad. All Persian dishes. I thought I’d make something from my mother’s side of the family.”

Marc, an all-American meat and potatoes man of the worst kind, squirmed in his seat as Khalil had known he would. It had been the same everywhere they’d gone. Khalil would try anything once, with a few exceptions, and drag Marc along with him, protesting. Until he had the first bite. Then he’d hoover it up before the rest of them had gotten halfway through. “Did you starve as a kid?” Khalil asked him once. “Or have fifteen competing siblings at the table? No, I know you didn’t. You had a well-behaved sister and parents who fed you more than sufficiently to grow you that big. What is wrong with you, man?” Their friends started calling him Mikey after the kid in the Life cereal commercial who hates everything. Adi had managed to temper it somewhat, but it was still amusing to watch.

Khalil loaded his friends’ plates, then nudged Obi and nodded toward Marc. Adi was ignoring him and exclaiming over everything she tasted with genuine pleasure while Marc was still poking suspiciously at the pomegranate seeds. Eventually, he steeled himself and took a forkful, eyes widening as the flavors bloomed across his tongue.

“Wow! That’s amazing, Kal!”

“I’ve never once poisoned you. I don’t know why you’re always so surprised,” Khalil said, poking Marc with his own fork.

“Because there’s always a first time, man,” Marc protested. “And, I mean, who knew burnt rice could taste this good?”

Khalil rolled his eyes. “And you’d deserve it if I did poison you,” he muttered. “I can’t believe I marooned myself up here to just to be around you.”

Adi told Obi, “they’re always like this. Just ignore it.”

Meanwhile, Obi was having his own epiphanies and wanting to learn to make something this good himself.

For dessert, they had a strawberry rhubarb pie with a lattice crust and whipped cream.

“If anything poisons you, it’ll be this,” Khalil said winking at Obi. “Obi made it.”

“I could dump this coffee in your lap,” Obi said conversationally, handing Khalil his cappuccino. “You scarfed down half the one I made yesterday without dying. That bellyache you had afterwards was just greed.”

“He claims he hasn’t baked or made pie crust before, but I think he’s lying,” Khalil said. “The pie we ate yesterday was fantastic too. Enjoy.”

By the end of the evening, Khalil had tipped his chair back on two legs and had his feet up on the porch railing, finishing the last of the wine, Obi was sprawled on the floor with his hands folded across his protruding stomach, eyes closed, and Adi was snuggled against Marc on the porch swing, Marc pushing it gently with one foot.

“That was soooooo good, you two,” Adi murmured sleepily.

“I’m stuffed,” Marc groaned.

“You’re the reason there are no leftovers,” Obi reminded him.

Khalil just smiled and drank down the last of his wine, content in himself and the world.

_The Winstons <MarcWinston&Fam@gmail.com> 10:15 PM  
to Kal _

_Thanks for dinner, Kal. That really was fantastic, and the company wasn’t bad either.  
Adi sends her groaning thanks too. We really enjoyed ourselves. I’m glad to see you’re settling in so well and looking as happy as you do. But you two act like you’re an old married couple already. You’re starting to scare me._

_Marc_

_Col. K.L. Cahill, U.S. Army (ret.) <KLCahill@gmail.com> 7:36 AM  
to Marc_

_Glad you both enjoyed it. I’d forgotten how much I like cooking for people. Although it’s more fun cooking for Adi (and Obi) than you._

_It’s starting to scare me a little too. Christ on a pogo stick, he’s 18, Marc. He’s already had a hell of a life and I don’t want to fuck that up any more for him. He needs to get out and see the world for himself and learn to be his own person before he gets mixed up with me. If he does._

_Kal_

May turned into June and the weather finally started to feel more like summer. Khalil bought a machete and spent a few days cutting back the brush along the drive, peeled down to just a pair of fatigues and his boots. Obi helped him dig out a few of the smaller stumps and they weighed the virtues of gravel vs. asphalt for the drive.

“One word,” Obi said. “Snowblower. Either that or you can get a plow for the front of the tank. But it’s still easier to clear asphalt.”

The thought of either plowing or shoveling that long drive himself made Khalil shudder. “Asphalt it is. I’ll price some snowblowers.”

“You might want to think about a garage, too, eventually. It’s way nicer to go from a warm car to a warm house without going outside when it’s twenty below. Not having to de-ice everything in the morning is good too. There’s room for it on the right side of the house. Just snake the driveway up to that spot and we can put it in later. Er, you can.”

“That’s a good idea, lad. Want to draw up some plans? Big enough for the tank and a snowblower? It might be good to have one done before winter, if we can manage it.”

Obi shook his head. “Now you’re doing it too. ‘We.’”

“Should I not be?” Khalil said, puzzled. “You live here too.”

“For how long, though?” he said, looking sad. “I mean, it’s your house.”

Khalil couldn’t help himself. He reached out and cupped Obi’s face in his hand. “As long as you like. But maybe we should talk about your long-term plans a bit. Would that help?”

Obi looked up at him, less sad and more hopeful. “Yeah, it would. I think—I could use some advice.

That evening, when the dishes were in the dishwasher, Khalil made a pot of decaf and sat down at the cleared bar with Obi, who had gotten out a gridded pad of paper and was sketching garage floor plans on it. He looked up from them when Khalil set down a steaming mug and the cream and sugar and spoon for him, then walked around the bar to sit down next to him with his own mug.

“So,” Khalil began. “I know you’re smarter than the average bear and that you’ve been home schooled, so you’ve got no documentation of how smart you are, and our society demands documentation every time you take a shit.”

Obi laughed. “Yeah, I guess you’d have experience with that, working in government.”

“Nothing like the Army for pieces of paper documenting everything,” Khalil agreed. “So what do we do about that?”

“Well, I do have documentation, actually. While you were farting around in Dublin, Mr. Cahill, sir, Adi got me signed up to take the GED test, just to see what I’d have to study to pass it.” He sat up a little straighter in the chair. “I aced it the first time. So I have a GED.”

“Blessings upon Adi’s head,” Khalil said, nodding approval with his lopsided smile. “I’m not surprised she did that, and I’m not surprised you aced it.”

“But wait! There’s more! Then she signed me up to take the SAT—you know what those are?”

“College entrance exams, aye, smartypants,” Khalil replied. “How’d you do?”

“Bombed them, the first time. Man, I was so mad when I came out of that gym where we took it. I was just steaming. I told Adi they were stupid and fuck them, I’d just keep going the way I was going and teach myself. ‘Fucking multiple choice bullshit,’ I think I said.”

Khalil made a face. “No, I can see how you wouldn’t do well on those. You think too much.”

“Apparently,” Obi responded in disgust. “I could see at least two right answers for every question, and that was never an option. Anyway, Adi found me a book on taking the damn test. How ridiculous is it that you have to be taught how to take a test?” Khalil shook his head in commiseration. “So I studied the book and then went back and took it again, right before you arrived. The scores just came in the other day.”

“How’d you do?”

Obi got a sly look. “Looks like I gamed the system. 1550 out of 1600.”

Khalil snorted. “Any system that can be gamed that easily by a smart person deserves to be gamed. Well done, lad. So you’ve got credentials now, of a sort—”

“But wait! There’s more!” Obi continued and Khalil laughed. Then Obi turned serious. “I really owe Adi for helping me out so much while you were in Dublin. I mean, I probably would have figured this stuff out and gotten it done eventually, but she really helped me get up to civilized speed. She helped me get a Social Security number, an ID, open a bank account, made me get my driver’s license—”

“Did she, now? Good for her! I didn’t now you’d been taking driving lessons.”

“I wasn’t,” Obi said, shaking his head. “I’d been driving my father’s truck since I was tall enough to see over the steering wheel and reach the gas. And it’s a stick.”

Khalil rolled his eyes. “Of course you were and of course it is. Well, I’ll have to see about putting you on the tank’s insurance, until you can get your own vehicle. But not until I’ve driven with you. So you’ve been driving about two years then?” Khalil said, and ducked away as Obi’s hand flashed out to punch his arm.

“Har har. Smartypants yourself, Mr. Cahill.” Obi’s expression turned thoughtful. “Here’s something a little weird though. While rejoining civilization, I had to get hold of my birth certificate.” His eyebrows came together in a ferocious frown that Khalil found himself wanting to smooth with his thumbs. He put his hands firmly around his mug. “I found out I’m actually two years older than I thought I was. I’m twenty, not eighteen.”

Khalil’s head whirled for a moment. “Are you, now. Well, that explains a few things. How’d this happen?”

Obi’s frown turned to a snarl. “Because my old man is a manipulative son of a bitch. We never celebrated birthdays. If he kept telling me I was a minor he was responsible for, he could get more free work out of me. At least until he found out I was a—” Khalil held up a finger and brought out the Colonel Cahill glare again. “—an abomination before God. Hey, I didn’t say ‘faggot.’”

“The more you tell me about your father and his bizarre religious beliefs, the more I hope I never meet him. That’s called gaslighting, lad. It’s a control technique that abusers use to keep their victims off balance and dependent on them. I’m betting he told you that you were stupid and weak and useless, too.”

Obi looked surprised. “Yeah, how’d you know?”

Khalil scowled. “I’ve met his kind before. A friend of mine was married to one until we managed to get her out of it. It took her years to get up the courage to leave him, and years to get her self-confidence back. I’m glad you got out before he damaged you irreparably.”

Obi looked away. “How do you know he didn’t?”

Khalil took Obi’s chin in his hand and gently made him turn his head so he could look the younger man in the eyes. “Because you not only survived him, you beat him, and you got yourself out. And now you’re starting to thrive. Look at you: isolated for your entire childhood from everyone else and the educational system, and still coming out on top of it. Getting yourself set up like a civilized adult in less than six months time.”

“With help. I mean, I didn’t do any of this alone.”

“Except get away from him. You did that alone. That was the hardest part. And you survived for two years without any help at all, in the worst possible conditions, lad. That’s brilliant. The rest of it is just details and paperwork. Be proud of that. That takes an incredible amount of internal strength. Understand me? Tell yourself that every day if you need to, until you know it without a doubt.”

Obi looked at him like a drowning man spying a life ring. “I couldn’t have done this without you, Kal,” he whispered. “I was so close to quitting, to just—walking into the river that spring. Then you showed up, and I knew I’d be all right.”

Khalil pulled him into a hug and held him while he shook, big hand cupping the back of the lad’s silky head. Eventually, Obi pulled back and reached for a napkin. Khalil handed him one of his handkerchiefs, which he seemed to carry in abundance because there was always a clean one. Obi wiped his eyes and blew his nose and sat back, looking ashamed. “I’m sorry—”

“Don’t be. There’s nothing wrong with tears. They mean you have feelings, that you’re alive to have feelings. Sometimes the only way to get those feelings out is to cry. That doesn’t make you less of a man. I’m sure your father told you that bullshit too.”

“He did,” Obi nodded.

“I really want to punch your old man,” Khalil growled.

Obi laughed a little roughly. “You might have to get in line,” he said darkly. And then, lightning quick, his mood changed. “Hey, something else I found out when I got my birth certificate: I’ve got a middle name. I never knew I did.”

“What is it?” Khalil said, curious. “Obediah certainly sets you apart from the ordinary folks.”

“It’s Benjamin. I’ve never liked my name, never liked being either Obi or Obediah.”

“Well, you don’t have to be, now. Would you like to start going by Benjamin? Or Ben?”

The lad, suddenly unnamed, looked thoughtful. Khalil watched the act of him creating a new identity with fascination. “Benjamin Kenner,” he said. “Ben Kenner. O. Benjamin Kenner. I like all of those.”

“Ben Kenner. Ben,” Khalil said, trying it out.

“It sounds good, coming from you. I like it.”

“Ben it is then. O. Benjamin Kenner would look good on a professional shingle somewhere. But what kind of shingle? Any idea?”

He gestured at the pad, where three different views of the potential garage were taking shape. “I like working with my hands, building things. Designing them.”

“Architect?”

“Maaaaaaybeeeeee,” he stretched it out. “I don’t know enough about it, yet. But I think _Architectural Digest_ broke me.”

Khalil laughed. “Off the top of my head, there’s engineer of some sort, draftsman, construction manager.”

“I think I want to work for myself,” Obi-now-Ben said. “How did you decide to join the army? And why?”

“I don’t think my experience will help you much,” Khalil said, frowning. “I ended up where I did for all the wrong reasons, then discovered when I’d made this awful decision that I was good at it and came to like parts of the job very much.”

“Which parts?” Ben said curiously.

“The parts that didn’t involve killing people.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We have achieved snuggles, but at what great cost?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot believe how this story is riding me. It's like being possessed. 
> 
> Still unbeta'd and likely to be retconned a little as well as cleaned up when the damn thing is finally done.

Ben boggled for a moment, then nodded. “Yeah, I imagine most people don’t think about that when they join the armed forces. It’s sure not the way it’s sold.”

“No, it’s not. Though I once saw a T-shirt of Vietnam War vintage an old friend of my father’s had that said something like, ‘Join the Army! Travel to exotic places! Meet exotic people! And kill them.’ That was truth in advertising, especially then. It’s evolved more into a peacekeeping force now, unless there’s oil involved, but it’s not that much different. It’s just sold now as a way to get skills and pay for college, which means you get a lot of poor kids signing up to try to get ahead, and that infuriates me. You still end up killing people, directly or indirectly.”

“That’s not why you joined,” Ben said. “I mean, the getting skills part.”

“I’d feel better about it if it was, but no. I was trying to prove myself. My parents were lovely about me coming out; my peers, not so much. I was a sensitive lad, and a bit mopey, and I heard all the usual slurs, got myself beaten up a couple of times in school. Cambridge wasn’t as bad, but there are bullies everywhere. So I took up boxing. Hated every minute of it, but it kept the bullies off once I broke someone’s nose.”

Ben reached out and ran a finger down Khalil’s crooked nose. It made Khalil smile. “Is that how this happened?”

“No, that was years later, in the field. No time to get it set, so I just left it.”

“I like it. It gives you character.”

Khalil laughed. “Marc would say I’ve got that in spades already. But thank you. Anyway, long story shortened: I read history and modern languages at school, did well as was expected, and everyone thought I was heading for a diplomatic career like Mama and Da. Truth is, I got beaten up one too many times and said to myself, ‘Self, fuck this shit; time to toughen up,’ and did the most badass thing I could think of to do and joined the U.S. Army. Where I got beaten up more often, but at least I learned to defend myself. They were more than happy to have a strapping big lad with a Cambridge degree and a facility for languages, especially Arabic, Pashto, and Persian. They steered me into Special Forces and before long, I was a diplomat with a gun.” Khalil poked Ben with a finger, rocking him back on his stool a little. “But you, my lad, have a world of choices before you now and don’t need to prove yourself to anyone, especially yourself, I hope.”

“I’m sure done caring what my father thinks,” Ben said with a scowl. “But I’ll have to find a way to pay for school.”

“We can talk about that, too, when the time comes,” Khalil reassured him.

Ben cocked his head, frowning. “I’ve noticed this tendency you have to just throw money at problems,” he observed.

“That’s what people with money do, lad. Most of the time. I’m lucky enough to have quite a lot of it. Both sides of my family are Old Money, and I’m an only child. Da was the younger son of an old and powerful Irish family. Mama’s people were very wealthy and powerful before the Iranian Revolution, and managed to shift most of their assets abroad before fleeing the country.”

Ben really boggled then. “What the hell are you doing here in the ass-end of nowhere?”

Khalil shrugged. “Black sheep. There’s one in every family. Money’s just a tool to make life more comfortable, as far as I’m concerned. The more people’s lives I can make comfortable with what I’ve got, the better the world is. Thirty years in and around the Army gave me fairly simple tastes, at least compared to my financial peers. But most importantly, I’m here because this is where my friends are.”

The graders came in to smooth and widen the drive, and Khalil ordered a load of rough-hewn granite blocks to line it after it was paved. Ben talked him out of the solar lamps he wanted to add by taking him to the greenhouse one clear night and making him lie on the floor and look up.

“That’s a beautiful sky all right,” Khalil agreed, swatting at a stray mosquito who had followed them in. “Almost as pretty as in Afghanistan’s mountains.”

“It’s already less than I could see when I was a kid,” Ben explained. “City people move up here and bring their damn lights with them. They’re afraid of the dark in the country, and it ruins it for all of us. Please don’t add to it. Reflectors will do the trick just as well, though they won’t be all _Architectural Digest_. And please don’t add those motion-sensitive outdoor lights either. It scares the wildlife off, and they were here first. We can mount a yard light or two on the eves and over the garage that turn on manually or with a remote. That’s all you need.”

Something else suddenly made sense to Khalil too. “That’s why you didn’t rake the yard.”

Ben nodded. “Best not to in the fall. It’s habitat for insects and small critters over the winter. My mother planted the early flowers in the yard for the bees. I think she was hoping to keep them eventually. I hope you won’t put sod down either. Monocultures in this kind of landscape are just evil.”

“Is there a lot of wildlife traipsing through the yard that I’m not seeing?”

“All kinds. Deer, foxes, raccoons, mink, possums, birds galore. That’s another good reason for a garage. Keeps the raccoons and bears out of the garbage.”

“Bears?” Khalil’s eyebrows went up.

“Sure, you are living in the ass-end of nowhere, you know. It’s still pretty wild up here. That’s one of the things I love about it. You’re not seeing it because you’re not looking. God knows you’re up early enough. Get yourself some binoculars and a bird book.”

“How do you feel about birdfeeders?”

“Definitely pro,” Ben nodded. “Winters are hard up here. Though I warn you it will be a constant war with the squirrels. A hunk of suet is good too in the winter, though the raccoons will fight over it sometimes. I could build a bat house too, to help keep the mosquitoes down.”

“I’d take a dozen of those, if it would help. Get to it. Are you interested in keeping bees too?”

Ben shook his head. “Not in the least. But don’t let me stop you.”

“Me? Not likely,” Khalil laughed. “I’m one of your city people. The closest I’ve gotten to communing with nature is having Marc teach me to fly fish and sleeping in a lot of sandy places with scorpions and snakes and lizards.”

They fell silent for a while, looking at the Milky Way turning above their small haven. “Now I’m thinking it would be nice to put a couple of hammocks and rockers in here and fill it with plants to make a conservatory. Just keep a small part of it for seedlings for the kitchen garden. I like looking at the sky in here. A telescope might be in order too.”

“Cool idea. How are you at gardening?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never tried. But I can learn. I at least want a bit of a kitchen garden. Herbs and garlic and leeks and such. Whatever will grow up here. But not that acreage your mother was planting. I’m not into preserving. Certainly not in the vast quantities it looks like your mother must have done, from the quantity of pantry shelving in the basement.”

“That might change when you’ve had the winter produce up here,” Ben muttered. “I’ve got a pretty green thumb from helping my mother with the garden. It’s too late to start anything this year, but we can go through the seed catalogs next year. And pots of herbs are easy. Just keep them on the windowsill in the kitchen. Or I can build you a shelf in that window.”

“That would be grand. I hate cooking with the dried ones if I don’t have to. So what kind of actual ‘men’s work’ did your old man do? Because it sounds like your mother worked damned hard.”

“She did. He hunted and fished and butchered and smoked and preserved all the things he killed. Built stuff for us and other people and taught me how to do all that too. Played soldier with his militia buddies. Smacked my mother and me around.”

“He hit you. And her.” Khalil’s fists balled until he made himself loosen them. “I’m sorry, lad. I guess it doesn’t surprise me, but he sounds like every bully I’ve ever known. I’m not surprised he’s part of that militia crowd, either. Was he friends with Jeff Robinson?”

“How do you know him? That was my father’s closest friend, if you could say he actually had friends.”

“That’s the man who keyed the tank, and tried to jump me in the parking lot of Brodie’s, after I bought the bastard a beer.”

“Yeah, he’s a mean son of a bitch too. I hope somebody saw that. He’ll never live it down.”

“It’s not nice of me, but I would relish that,” Khalil admitted.

Ben snorted. “Makes two of us.”

It was a bit of a wait for the pavers to come in, since summer was the season for it and they were booked pretty solidly. June turned into July with the Fourth on a Thursday this year, curtailing Marc’s always extravagant cookout plans.

“We’ll have to do it on the weekend instead, because I’ll be out corralling drunks and confiscating illegal fireworks and pulling numbskulls out of the river on Thursday.”

“How loud does it get around here? Fireworks-wise, I mean,” Khalil asked. They were at Brodie’s, sans the militia louts but with Siri behind the bar again.

“Out where you are? Not too loud, I don’t think. Obi—I mean Ben. Damn, that’s going to take some getting used to, even though I like it better. Ben can tell you that better than I can. Fireworks bother you?”

“Sometimes,” Khalil said, and left it at that. He’d ask Ben about it when he got home.

But he forgot, and when the Fourth rolled around, he hadn’t dug up either the military-grade ear plugs or the noise cancelling headphones, hadn’t made a plan, wasn’t paying any attention at all except to enjoy the distant blooms of light in the sky that he could see from the porch swing. The house was far enough outside town that the municipal fireworks were virtually noiseless, sounding more like Rice Krispies than anything dangerous.

That all changed when the neighbors a half-mile away started to set theirs off.

Khalil’s whole body went rigid with the first crackle and boom of the M80 and the string of firecrackers that followed it. The second and third M80, exploding nearly together, sent him off the swing and rolling under it in a reflex action that took him right back to Syria, where the airstrikes from the Russian planes seemed to go on and on. He’d been nearly deafened by the first one that had taken out the building next door, but he could feel them in his body like a hand battering his sternum against the rhythm of his heart. He and Mike instinctively dove for cover under whatever was nearest, the building trembling around them. He curled up in a fetal position, helmet and arms over his head, which was all you could do, and waited, heart hammering, hammering, breath short, air filled with dust that made him cough and gasp, the planes roaring overhead followed by the whistle of bombs dropping. The roof fell in at some point, somewhere nearby, but not directly over him, putting more dust in the air and letting in a whiff of that terrifying and familiar garlic smell of white phosphorus. He hoped to hell the wind would blow it away before the cloud of it reached them, or that they were mostly upwind of it. Then he felt someone pulling him out from under cover and urging him away, away. “I can’t leave Mike!” he shouted. “He’s still in there! Wait! Wait! Mike! Mike!” But the hands were insistent, dragging him along, down a set of stairs, and into a bunker, dark and silent, where he curled up again with this back to the wall and his hands over his head, weeping and shaking.

“—safe. It’s okay, Kal. It’s okay. You’re safe. It’s just fireworks. Just fireworks. You’re home, and safe and everything’s okay.”

The voice was soothing but not immediately familiar. Someone was carding through his hair and his head was in someone’s lap. He felt nauseated and cold and his muscles ached from trembling. He hadn’t, thank Christ and Allah, pissed himself, but he remembered now that he’d been terrified enough to. Distantly, he heard another muffled boom that made him twitch, but the noise was soft enough that he could feel himself calming down even as it startled him a little.

“Shhhhhhhh, it’s just fireworks, Kal. You’re safe. It’s all right.” The hand in his hair was gentle and there was an arm wrapped around his ribs, under his arm. _Ben,_ he realized. Ben’s voice, Ben’s hands, Ben’s lap he was lying in.

“Fuck,” Khalil groaned and pushed himself upright. Ben kept a hand on his back even as he pulled away and pushed his fingers through his hair. He sat with his legs crossed and back against a cool wall in an unfamiliar space—no, it was his own goddamn basement, for Christ’s sake. Goddammit.

“Hey,” Ben said, his voice just above a whisper. “You back with me?”

Khalil dropped his hands to his lap and looked over at Ben, whose brows were furrowed in that fierce frown he’d come to love. His eyes were full of concern though, and his hand on Khalil’s back was warm and light and comforting.

“Yeah,” he said hoarsely, and cleared his throat. “Yeah, I’m here,” voice still ragged as though he’d been screaming. “I’m sorry you had to see that. They’re not usually this bad. Thank you for bringing me down here and staying with me. That was exactly the right thing to do. How much time did I lose?”

Ben’s hand fell away from him and it felt like grief to lose that touch. “Not long,” he said. “Maybe twenty minutes or so. They’re still at it over at the Nikkari’s. Probably will be until midnight or so. They like their noisemakers. I should have warned you.”

“If I’d had any sense, I would have asked you,” he growled, and then shivered.

“Let me get you some tea,” Ben said. “Hot and sweet. Why don’t you sit on the stairs? It’s probably a little warmer. I’ll be right back.”

Before he could say anything, Ben scrambled to his feet and up the stairs. He’d probably terrified the lad as much as he’d been terrified. Probably thought he was living with a lunatic now. He listened to the creaking of the floor above as Ben walked around and tried to slow his heart down. He put his hands on his knees and closed his eyes, back straight and pressed against the wall. One deep inhale; hold it; exhale. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Repeat repeat repeat until the fear chemicals in his body metabolized and his breathing and heart slowed, and the soft _crump_ of muffled M80s going off no longer made him twitch.

He heard Ben come back downstairs and felt something warm draped over his shoulders. Smell and touch told him it was his parents’ Persian marriage blanket from the foot of his bed. When Khalil’s eyes opened again, Ben put the warm cup in his hands and wrapped them around it. “Drink up, boyo. It’s good for what ails you,” he said with a smile.

Khalil chuckled and felt himself choke up. Ben saw what was happening and took the cup from him again and he suddenly had a lithe young man straddling his lap and hugging him tightly and murmuring soothing nonsense in his hair as he wept.

“Oh God, Khalil, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. It’s Mike, isn’t it? He’s dead and you loved him. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Ben held him as the grief came out in a way it hadn’t before, in a way it hadn’t been allowed to. He and Michael Giett had loved each other fiercely almost from the moment they’d met at a security conference in Copenhagen three years prior to Syria. Three years. That was all they’d had together before Putin’s goddamned Russians in that insane shithole that was civil-war wracked Syria had burned him alive. And no one knew. Not Marc, not any of the other people who had worked with or for Khalil, not any of his other friends. It had been a glorious secret full of hot sex and travel and food and the joy of each others company, and imminent plans to retire together in the Dutch Antilles where Mike’s home was. They’d never formalized anything, never told their friends or family, and so there had been no space for him to grieve as he should have for someone who was far, far more than his working partner.

But Ben let him. He absorbed Khalil’s wracking sobs, and the broken story that came out in fits and starts between, absorbed the pain and grief and rage. It ran through the lad like water, he the rock in the raging river that was Khalil’s emotions. He straddled Khalil’s lap and held him tight, hands threaded into his mass of hair and tight around his back until the wound was lanced, leaving him raw and exhausted. And still Khalil could not stop talking. He’d never shared these stories with anyone and he needed to, he needed someone to know what Michael had been to him, what they had been to each other, two ex-soldiers trying to keep other people in the world from killing each other.

Finally, he ran out of words.

Ben leaned back in his lap and threaded Khalil’s hair behind his ears, then cupped his face. “I’m so sorry,” he said again. “He sounds like a great guy. A lot like you.” He kissed Khalil’s forehead and started to get up, but Khalil reached for him. “Please,” was all Khalil could manage, but Ben slipped his arms around Khalil’s neck again and rested his head against Khalil’s. Khalil returned the embrace, his arms around Ben’s torso. For the first time in a long time, something felt right in Khalil’s life. This young man felt right in his arms.

It was late by the time they finally extricated themselves from each other and the basement, and the Nikkaris had apparently gone to bed. Outside was only the sound of crickets. Ben moved back off his lap and got up, then pulled Khalil to his feet, who got up stiffly.

“Christ and Allah, I’m tired,” he muttered, shrugging out of the blanket and folding it up again.

Ben picked up the cold tea and headed up the stairs. “I can imagine. You’ve had a hell of an evening.”

Khalil followed him up the stairs and into the kitchen, then stopped him once he’d dumped the tea down the sink and put the cup in the dishwasher.

“Ben, I—thank you. You shouldn’t have had to—”

“Just stop, Kal,” Ben said, not annoyed, but a little exasperated. “Stop apologizing. Isn’t this what people who love each other do for each other? Take care of each other? Isn’t that what you and Michael did for each other? Why wouldn’t I want to do that for you?”

Khalil wasn’t sure he’d heard Ben right, wasn’t sure he wasn’t just hearing what he wanted to. And he had to know. “What are you saying, Ben?”

The lad cocked his head. “What does it sound like? I love you, Kal. That’s not going to change whether you love me or not. I know I have no idea what I’m doing. I was raised by wolves, and I don’t have any idea of how to go about loving someone, but I know I can’t imagine what my life would be like without you. It was empty and cruel and cold before you came into it, and now it’s warm, and funny, and, and full of hope and light. I don’t know what that means. But sitting in your arms tonight felt like the most right thing in the world to me.”

Khalil’s heart had broken wide open this evening, spilling everything inside it he carried for Michael Giett, except the warmth and love they had shared. That would never go away, he knew, but in grieving he had started to let go of what had been and move into the present where he belonged, and not the past. Maybe there was room here for someone else.

But Ben was still talking and he needed to listen. “—not asking you for anything, especially right now. I’m just telling you how I feel.”

Khalil took a deep breath and let it out slowly, scrubbing his face with his hands. So. Many. Red. Flags. He wasn’t equipped to do this tonight.

“Kal? Hellooooooo? Ground control to Colonel Cahill.”

He looked up to see Ben grinning at him. “Go to bed, man. You’re already up way past your bedtime and it’s been a rough day. We’ll talk in the morning, after the jet fuel. Come on.”

Ben took him by the elbow and turned him around, all but pushing him up the stairs, taking the blanket from him and following behind. “Go brush your teeth or whatever,” he said at the top of the stairs, detouring into Khalil’s room. He didn’t even mind.

He washed his face and brushed his teeth, feeling dead on his feet, and shuffled back into his bedroom. The marriage blanket was back at the foot of his bed. Ben had already folded the covers back on his bed and found his sleep shorts, and ducked out again. He peeled off his clothes and draped them over the back of a nearby chair and put his shorts on. It was a warm night, so he only pulled the sheet up and was reaching to turn out the light when there was a soft knock on the frame.

“Are you going to be all right tonight? Or would you like some company?”

“I would love some company,” he confessed. “If you don’t mind.”

“I don’t,” Ben said with a smile.

In a few minutes, he was back in his own shorts, slipping into bed beside Khalil, who turned to him and gathered him into his arms. It still felt right.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A long conversation reaches a short climax.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously, I lie in bed in the morning before I get up with the boyz telling me what's coming next.
> 
> Still not beta'd.

As usual, Khalil woke in the morning long before Ben, but later than most days, with sunlight streaming through the windows. They had moved away from each other in the night and Khalil indulged himself in the sight of Ben totally relaxed and peaceful. Or mostly peaceful. He still had a slight frown on his face, eyebrows arched and making a furrow between them. Unable to help himself, he smoothed it with his thumb. Ben’s eyes fluttered open and cleared enough to recognize Khalil, making Ben smile.

“Go back to sleep, laddie,” Khalil whispered and kissed his temple.

“’kay,” Ben mumbled and burrowed into the pillow.

Khalil took his clothes to the bathroom with him and stood in the shower for a long time, trying to loosen the kinks in his muscles. He gave up eventually and toweled off and dressed, then went downstairs to make coffee. He still felt hammered from the evening before, the way he used to after a firefight, even though he’d slept well. Ben had been a warm and quiet bedfellow and it had been a comfort having someone at his back in the night.

He was checking his emails on the laptop at the bar when Ben finally came downstairs in his shorts, scratching at his scruff, hair still mussed from sleep. He saw Khalil at the bar and broke into a wide smile, padding over to him and leaning up to kiss his cheek before beelining for the coffeepot. He offered Khalil a refill, doctored his own, and sat down in his usual seat at the end of the bar. About halfway through his mug, when Khalil wasn’t typing, he finally broke the morning silence.

“So, we broke a couple of rules last night and might be in need of some new ones. What do you think?”

“Which rules do you think we broke?”

“Well, you were shouting and it wasn’t actually an emergency, though I guess you thought it was at the time. I invaded your privacy, getting your blanket and putting it back.”

Khalil couldn’t help the wry smile. “I think the emergency clause covers both of those. I wasn’t exactly in my right mind for a significant part of last night. And it did seem like an emergency to me.”

“Has that happened before?” Ben said gently.

Khalil shook his head. “Not like that. Not that vivid, or that long. I’ve had nightmares and woke up not knowing where I was for a bit. I startle more easily than I used to. But nothing like this before. The shrink said I would probably have a sensitive startle reflex for a while, and that flashbacks were a possibility. But it’s been almost two years. I didn’t expect it now.”

“From what it sounded like last night,” Ben said slowly, “you’d never talked to anyone about Mike. Just the shrink? Right?”

Khalil nodded. “We weren’t going to say anything until we both retired. Neither of us were out to people in the industry, and it would have probably ruined business for both of us. I didn’t care, for obvious reasons, but Mike had a few years to go before he could retire. I told him he didn’t have to worry about it, that I’d top up his account, but he said he didn’t want to feel like my gigolo. I can’t blame him for that, even though I wouldn’t have missed it. And I couldn’t tell his family, afterwards, either. They’re very conservative and he wasn’t out to them. It wasn’t the time to tell them something like that about their dead, fair-haired boyo.”

“So last night was literally the first time you got to tell anybody, except your shrink, anything about this man you loved.” Khalil nodded, and could feel himself tearing up again. “So it’s still fresh. Like, yesterday-fresh. It’s been rattling around in your head since it happened, trying to get out. Stuff like that doesn’t go away, Khalil. That cut you open and it hasn’t healed yet. Hey—”

Seeing Khalil digging for his handkerchief, Ben got off his stool and burrowed under his arm to hug him.

“How’d you get so wise, at your age, Benjamin Kenner?” Khalil said after he’d wiped his eyes again and blown his nose.

Ben stood up again and snorted. “Not so wise. I had to find my way through a lot of shit my father did to me, and I had a few friends to help with that. I know that may come as a surprise to you that I had friends,” he grinned sardonically. “Not all the kids in town thought I was a complete freak, although I think a lot of the ones who didn’t just felt sorry for me. Siri started out that way—”

“Siri Olsen?” Khalil said, surprised. “The bartender at Brodie’s?”

“Yeah, she’s the one. She and her brother Garen and I got to be friends when we were about 13. Their family sort of semi-adopted me from a distance, like Mrs. Newsome at the library. They’d sneak me books and clothes and cut class to hang out with me when I could get away from home. Garen built a bicycle for me from a bunch of old ones, but my father trashed it when I brought it home. Didn’t want me getting away from him. I probably wouldn’t be here without them. They got me through a lot of really bad times,” Ben explained. “You need to tell people about this, Khalil. Don’t sit on it. Promise me you won’t sit on it. Tell me about it, tell Marc. He should know too. He’d want to.”

Khalil put his head in his hands. “I have no idea how to tell him about Michael. Where the hell would I start?”

“How about, _listen, I have to tell you about this man I met._ ”

“And just end it with, _and then he died?_ ”

“It won’t end there,” Ben assured him. “Marc will want to hear all about him. And then Adi will, and when you’re done, you’re going to be able to keep talking about him like he was an open part of your life, not some dirty secret. Not to mention that you’ll be able to talk about how it happened without it feeling like it just happened. You’ll be able to say things like _Mike would have liked it up here,_ or _I wish Mike could see this,_ without needing a handkerchief.”

Khalil was dumbstruck. He was sure his shrink had said similar things to him, but they hadn’t registered; the grief had been too fresh, too immediate. Hearing the same things now, from Ben, they began to sink in. He had a lot of emotional work to do, that he didn’t have to and shouldn’t do alone. He nodded and wiped his eyes again, knowing Ben was right. He couldn’t imagine what this young man had gone through to give him the wherewithal and the ability to handle …

He looked up at Ben. “You have nightmares too, don’t you? And flashbacks?”

Ben nodded. “Not flashbacks, exactly. I think they’re called ‘dissociative episodes.’ I lose time, like I did when I ran from my father after I thought I’d shot him. Not recently, though. Not since I started living with you.”

Khalil scrubbed at his face, feeling exhausted all over again. “Christ and Allah, I think I need to find us both a shrink. Probably not the same one,” he growled.

Ben shook his head. “I can’t afford that—”

“Of course you can,” Khalil countered, looking over at him with surprise. “You have insurance.”

Ben looked shocked. “I do?”

“Of course. Until this benighted country gets its shit together on universal healthcare, if I have hired you to work for me on a long-term basis, you have healthcare insurance. I know I sent you the papers, laddie. Read your employment contracts. Carefully.”

“I will, now!” He laughed, seeming excited. “And I’ll go if you will.”

Khalil, who was all in favor of mental health care since he’d seen what lack of it did to too many veterans, stuck out his hand. “Deal.”

They shook, both grinning. “You realize we’re both really happy about going to a shrink,” Ben laughed.

“I’d say that was probably not a bad thing,” Khalil replied, chucking nonetheless. He took a sip of his coffee, realized it had gone cold, and got up to get more, squeezing Ben’s shoulder on the way. “Now, about that other elephant in the room,” he said as he filled his cup and topped up Ben’s.

“You mean my feelings for you?” Ben said as his face flushed. Despite that, he looked at Khalil defiantly. “I mean what I said.”

“I’ve no doubt of that, lad,” Khalil said gently. “I—it’s just a very sticky road we’re on,” he said, leaning back against the sink. I think we’ve both got a fair amount of emotional work to do before we can talk about what we might want with each other, for one thing.”

Ben nodded, looking serious, and Khalil was once again struck by the disproportionate maturity of this young man. He suspected Ben had been a serious child, or learned to be one too quickly, and like a lot of only children, had matured early. He’d rarely met a young person this age as responsible or quick to grasp the difficulties of life. _Probably a survival tactic,_ Khalil thought, knowing what he did about the lad’s father. Like some of the young people he’d met in war zones.

“Yeah, I know I’m pretty broken—”

Khalil was suddenly angry and Ben flinched back in a way that made him regret showing it. But this had to be said. “You are NOT broken, Benjamin Kenner. You are not a freak, or a faggot, or any other nasty shite you’ve been called. You’re a handsome, intelligent young man who’s had the shite kicked out of him by people who should have cared for him. You might be wounded, and we all are in some way, but you’re bloody well not _broken._ The fact that you’re not just functioning but doing it as well as you are with the life you’ve had so far proves that.”

9\. No use of the word “broken” in reference to people.

“Yes, sir. Got it,” Ben said.

“I apologize if I gave you a fright there. It wasn’t you I was angry with, but at the people who made you feel this way. And blessings on Siri and her family for doing what they could for you. On all the people who’ve helped you.”

“Not least you and Marc and Adi,” Ben reminded him. “That’s—I think that’s part of why I feel the way I do about you. There’s some gratitude mixed up in there.”

“Aye,” Khalil said, “no doubt. But gratitude isn’t love, and love doesn’t need gratitude. We did the things we did for you, are doing for you, because they’re the right things to do for a fellow human, especially a young one.”

“Because that’s the kind of people you and Marc and Adi are: moral people. I get that, Khalil. But you’re also warm and loving people. Marc’s told me you’re always picking up strays, and about the kid you tried to adopt. I’ll bet you still send them money.”

Khalil flushed. “I put her through school. She’s such a brilliant little flame. Well, not so little now. She’s doing her graduate work at the London School of Economics. She reminds me a bit of you: thriving despite everything awful that happened to her.”

“But you didn’t have to do that, any more than you had to put Marc’s daughters through school.”

“Why shouldn’t I?” Khalil said, putting his cup down on the counter and beginning to pace, gesticulating in frustration. “I’ve got the means. More than enough. Too much for any one person, to be truthful about it. No one person should have so much money. It’s obscene. And the damn stuff, I can’t spend it fast enough, because I won’t give it to the charities who are always hounding me for it.”

“Why not?” Ben looked surprised, and quizzical.

“There are plenty of other rich people who will, to see their name on a hospital wing or a museum or an endowment. And because my taxes should be going to take care of people’s healthcare and support artists and build public works and infrastructure. I think the MacArthur has the right of it: give it to individual people to do with as they will. Let them realize their own dreams, not yours. But give it to them early enough to realize their _potential_ , not when they’ve already had to struggle to do that. That’s why I’ve said I’d put you through school too. I want to see what you’ll do without impediments. I want to see what Marc and Adi’s bright girls will do with a good launching. And the people I try to help have always got some kind of impediment in their way. Manizha had lost a leg and her family and grew up in an orphanage in a country that doesn’t want to educate girls. Marc and Adi’s lovely young women are Black and female in a society that hates both. And you, as you’ve repeatedly said, were raised by wolves. I don’t think you’re wrong about that, either.”

Ben was blinking too fast and looked away. Khalil handed him another of his endless supply of clean handkerchiefs, and brushed a hand over his head.

“Thank you,” he said finally, after a couple of sniffs and dabs at his eyes. “I just—I’ve never really known what it’s like to have someone believe in me like this.”

“Not your friends? Not Mrs. Newsome?”

He shook his head. “Not the same. They did what they could. But you and Adi and Marc, I feel like you’ve all gotten behind me and _pushed._ You know? Because you see something in me. But that’s not what we were talking about.” Ben gave him a look that said _I see what you did there._

Khalil gave him a lopsided smile. “No, but we were trying to unpick gratitude from love. My point is I appreciate your gratitude, but it’s not necessary. And it’s not love.”

“Okay, I get that. But that’s not all I feel for you. I’m just not sure I can explain it, is all. But it’s way more than that. Way more. I, um, I care about what happens to you. I want you to be happy, to enjoy your life and be surrounded by people who care about you. I want you to be well. I want to help you do things you want to do.” He made a frustrated face. “It makes me happy to be around you. It makes me feel safe and like I matter. It makes me feel saner. You make me laugh; you get my humor. I want to make you proud of me, not disappoint you. I think you are an amazing person, Khalil. Kind and warm and generous and strong. I didn’t really understand what empathy was until I met you. There wasn’t any in my family. I think that’s what Mrs. Newsome felt for me and Siri’s folks, but it’s like this huge thing in you. You just get it in a way that so many others don’t. I’ll bet you always have. ‘Sensitive, mopey kid,’ right? I’m not sure how you survived in the army.”

“Some days I’m not sure either, lad,” Khalil admitted. “Those are all parts of love, yes. But loving and being in love—”

“I also think you’re the hottest thing on two legs!” Ben blurted and then flushed to the roots of his hair and hid his face in his hands. “Oh God. I can’t believe I said that,” he muttered in a muffled voice Khalil could barely hear. It was all he could do not to laugh, because it was funny and it wasn’t. It was flattering as hell and sweet, too. And it went straight to his groin.

“I take it you’re sexually attracted to me, then,” he said with as straight a face as he could manage, which wasn’t very.

Ben looked up, face still flushed. “Please don’t laugh—oh, you’re laughing. Shit.”

“Not at you, lad, I promise. Okay, a little,” he chuckled. “Why are you so embarrassed?” Then he had a horrifying thought. “Oh, Christ and Allah, tell me I’m not your first.”

“No!” Ben almost shrieked, mortified. “Argh! No. Garen and I had a little awkward … thing. Whatever it was. But Garen’s my age—”

“Ah. Yes. That’s one of the sticky things. You’re not quite jailbait, but to be blunt, I’m old enough to be your father. Is that what’s embarrassing?”

“No! Why would that matter any more than the fact that you’re a guy? I don’t know why I’m embarrassed. I just—I mean, Garen’s hot, but, I dunno, unfinished? Something like that. God, I’ve never seen anything like you. When you were out bushwhacking in your fatigues and boots I nearly had a meltdown.”

Khalil did laugh then. “Oh, lad, this old, scarred up, out of shape carcass? I need to find you some porn.”

Ben goggled at him. “ _Out of shape_? Oh my God, if this is you out of shape, you must have fucking looked like Rambo before you retired. I know you and Marc are still running four times a week, so I can’t imagine how that counts as out of shape.”

“I’m not in fighting shape, then. Even when I am, I don’t bulk up like that. You lose flexibility. But seriously, I still have to get you some porn.”

Ben waved that away. “Dude, I have the internet. I’ve seen plenty of porn. You are the real deal, believe me. It’s the whole—” He gestured to indicate all of Khalil.

“Package?” Khalil said in mock innocence.

“Are you fucking flirting with me?” Ben demanded.

Khalil backed against the sink again, as though trying to get as far away as he could in the relatively confined space, and covered his eyes with one hand. “No, lad. I’m trying like hell not to let you seduce me.”

He heard Ben let out a deep breath and looked up.

“Okay, I was worried I was in this alone.”

Khalil shook his head and sighed. “No, Ben, and that’s the problem.”

“What’s the problem? Because I’m not seeing it.”

“And you wouldn’t, precisely because I _am_ old enough to be your father.” In his usual precise, list-making way, Khalil ticked off the difficulties on his fingers. “That’s the first of the problems, the age disparity,” he held up a finger forestalling Ben’s protest, “not because of us, but because of the way other people will see it. I’ll just be a dirty old man taking advantage of a good kid who’s already had his share of abuse. It’ll look like I’ve been grooming you to take advantage of you. You and I and the people who matter will know it’s not like that, but I’m vain enough to care about my reputation in that regard. A rumor like that could undo a lot of good work I’ve already done.

“Then there’s the whole problem of the two of us being at different stages of our lives. You’re about to launch and I’ve come back to base for the last time. Where I am and what I’m doing should not, cannot, _will not_ tie you here or keep you from reaching your full potential as far as I’m concerned. If I have to shove you out into the cold with a credit card, you’re by God going to figure out who you are and what you want to do with your life, without me getting in the way.”

“Except for the credit card, of course,” Ben interjected. He was grinning, but there was a mild sarcasm to his tone.

“No sidetracking, please. I’m not finished. Third, I’m not even sure what I’m feeling for you isn’t just rebound from Michael. Nothing about my emotions is clear to me right now. That said,” Khalil paused and came around the counter again to stand in front of Ben’s stool. Ben turned it until Khalil had fitted himself between Ben’s spread legs and cupped his face. “—I am so glad you’re here with me right now. You make me feel younger, happier, more alive than I’ve felt since Michael was killed. And it’s not the pleasure of helping you, or being a mentor, or any of those things. It’s just you. Your funny, smart, kind, decent, clever self. And the fact that you are sex on a stick.” And Khalil kissed him.

Apparently it surprised the hell out of Ben, because he froze for a very long moment while Khalil panicked and thought he’d made a terrible miscalculation. Then that soft mouth opened under his lips and a wicked tongue pushed against his own and they were trading a very sloppy and intense kiss back and forth. Ben pushed into his mouth like it was an antidote to poison, desperate and wanting. Khalil nipped at his lips and made a full exploration of that warm mouth while Ben made soft mewling noises that wound Khalil up like a spring. He wanted to sling Ben over his shoulder and take him upstairs to his bed and fuck the loneliness and pain right out of both of them. With a gasp, he stepped back out of Ben’s arms, away from the hands that had wandered down to his ass, somehow gotten inside his jeans.

Ben made a grabbing motion but Khalil backed out of reach, breathing hard. “Jayzus, lad. You’re like opium. I shouldn’t have started that, because we’re not going to finish it. I’m sorry. It’s rude to be a cocktease.”

“Gah! I can’t believe you’re doing this,” Ben cried, his shorts tented and damp. “Would it help if I begged? Started whining? Crawled across the floor? Rolled at your feet? Please? Please? Pretty please?”

Against all his better judgement, Khalil found himself on his knees, reaching inside Ben’s shorts and freeing Ben’s cock and swallowing it down, mouthful that it was. His other hand worked frantically at the already loosened fastenings of his jeans (when had that happened?) and pushed them down enough to reach his own cock, which was aching like he was twenty himself. Then he gave Ben all his attention, sliding down his shaft and pulling back up with suction and a twist of his tongue to the uncut head, the foreskin already shrunk back. Ben groaned and scrabbled at his shoulders, fingers tangling in his hair but not pulling. Khalil let go with a pop that made Ben shudder and moan. “Pull if you like, lad. I don’t mind,” he said, and went back to business. Ben’s hands sank into his mane of hair then, still gentle, riding the bobbing over his cock and completely incoherent. Khalil slid down the lad’s shaft once more and swallowed around him and that was all it took. Ben shrieked and Khalil swallowed frantically and pulled off a bit to work his own cock in a few swift strokes to bring himself off, his orgasm roaring through him, spattering the floor.

They sat like that for a bit, both stunned, Khalil on the floor with his own knees spread in a mirror of the ones he leaned on now, the smell of sex thick in the air. Christ and Allah, he’d missed that. He’d had no libido to speak of for the two years after burying Michael, hadn’t thought he’d want sex again, perhaps ever, until this young man had fallen into his life. “ _Ātashé del-am,_ ” he heard himself murmur. _Fire of my heart._

“Khalil, Khalil, holy God,” Ben murmured when he got his breath back, combing his fingers through Khalil’s hair, gently tugging out the tangles he’d made. “Holy fuck. Hey, hey—”

Ben slithered off the stool and into his arms, straddling his lap and holding him tight. Christ and Allah, he was weeping again. All the tears he’d never cried were coming out in a flood, making up for lost opportunities. And Ben held him, murmuring in his ear. “It’s all right. We’re okay. We’re both going to be okay. Shhhhhh.” He buried his face in Ben’s shoulder and tried to believe that.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Khalil makes plans and spills his story to Marc.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little interlude here to get everyone up to speed.

Small changes cropped up on the property over the next week or so that Khalil was sure were Ben’s doing, but that he never saw happen. A shelf appeared in the kitchen window one morning, sporting small pots of thyme and basil and rosemary. A covered birdfeeder sprouted in the yard, along with a chickenwire frame for suet mounted on the split-off trunk of a dead tree at the edge of the yard. Khalil dug out the binoculars he had “liberated” upon retirement and ordered a local bird book, per instructions. High up in the attic eves, a line of three bat houses seemed to protrude out of the cedar shakes, built of the same material and soon to weather into the same color. NO HUNTING signs sprang up on the perimeter, nailed to posts, not to the trees, and tagged with reflective orange strips. Part of the table and some of the shelving were gone from the greenhouse when he looked again.

Ben supervised both the pouring of the concrete pad for the garage and the laying of the asphalt driveway afterwards. He and Khalil dug out a trench alongside the drive and set the granite into it. Ben put tall green reflectors on rods every five feet between them. “You’ll see why they’re so tall, in the winter,” he said with a wink.

“Better get that garage done for the snowblower and the tank if that’s the kind of weather that’s coming. Not to mention the ten pound bags of birdseed and the chest freezer.”

“You did not! My God, you really are becoming one of us!” Ben exclaimed, laughing. “Next you’ll be hunting deer.”

“Probably not. But I’ve ordered a generator too, since there’s already a space and connections for it. It’ll be nice to be able to offer Adi and Marc hot showers and a warm bed when their power is out.”

“Wait, where am I going to sleep?” Ben said plaintively, and only half joking.

They hadn’t had sex again since the blow job in the kitchen. Khalil had asked for a time out to “get his head screwed on straight” and find a good shrink, and Ben had agreed. Taking it slow seemed like the smart thing to do, given the obstacles. Khalil had made a diligent effort and found a counselor who specialized in PTSD at the VA facility a 90 minute drive away, which seemed absurd, considering how near the military base they were, decommissioned or not. The population of vets in the area he was living in must be enormous. There was a local VFW hall whose parking lot was always full and plenty of military bumper and window stickers on the backs of cars. He mulled the problem over while making the three-hour trip each week, when he wasn’t mulling over the shite in his own head.

Ben intended to follow his lead, but there was an impediment he had to solve first.

“Can I ask you a favor?” he said one morning as they had coffee on the porch.

Khalil had his binoculars out and was bird watching at the feeder. He put them down and turned to Ben. “Of course, laddie.”

Ben made an annoyed and frustrated face. “I hate doing this. It pisses me off that I have to. I tried to get a loan to buy a truck last week, to stop depending on you for transportation, and to have something I can use to haul tools and construction materials—”

“And found you couldn’t, without a co-signer.”

“Yeah. I’m just a nobody, with no credit history to speak of—something else my father never taught me about—so I can’t get a loan. What a horseshit way of doing things. You can’t get credit history without a loan and you can’t get a loan without credit history.”

“Oh, lad, you have no idea what a fucking racket it is for most folks, made that way by people like me. Keep wages stagnant, jack up the cost of living, skim off all the profit from people’s hard work, then offer them credit cards at usurious rates to keep them in debt and employed all their lives, until they die of exhaustion. Not to mention the cost of the student loans. You should hear Manizha go on about the evils of late-stage capitalism. I think she’s spending all her time at the LSE learning how to wreck it, and I will cheer her when she does. Anyway, you need a co-signer. I’d be happy to.” Khalil paused. “It might be a bit awkward at the bank, you realize.”

Ben cocked his head. “Why? Oh. The sugar daddy shit. Fuck them. I’ve been the subject of town gossip for so long that one more thing isn’t going to make a difference to me. Will it bother you?”

“The good thing about keeping a large chunk of money in a local bank means the bank manager will bend over backwards for _Mr. Cahill, sir,_ including keep his mouth shut. And I think I can make it clear that I’m coming in as your employer, doing a valued employee a favor. Speaking of which, I think you need a raise. You’re doing far more than caretaking these days, with the construction work and renovations. Skilled carpenters don’t come cheap. I think I owe you for some materials, too. Give me an invoice, please.”

Ben ended up with a nicer truck than the one he’d picked out, at a reasonable price, thanks to his larger pay stub and Khalil’s signature on the loan. Once the plates and insurance were settled, he kitted it out with a locked toolbox, one that also rapidly filled from his new wages. And he found himself a local counselor, closer by than Khalil’s. Ben suggested they stagger their appointments to be there for each other on really bad days, of which Khalil suspected there would be more than a few.

As Ben had, Khalil’s shrink encouraged him to tell Marc about Michael. “The more you share this,” his shrink, another Afghan vet, told him, “the less painful it becomes, and the more it becomes just another event in your life, not a secret burden you have to carry. It’s never going to be an ordinary event, because it was so fucking traumatic to begin with, but it will be a part of you that belongs, that makes you who you are.”

He still had no idea how Marc was going to react and discovered he was terrified of telling him. He’d been out to Marc and his family for literally decades, nearly from the get-go when they’d been in the same squad in Afghanistan. Marc, being Marc, had not given a flying fuck who he preferred to sleep with, only that he knew what he was doing in the field. They had become and stayed friends because they had had each others backs through every imaginable situation. And because they both recognized good people when they saw them. But given the Army at the time, he’d also never talked about who he slept with. It was a part of his life that Marc had never been party to. But Marc wasn’t his commanding officer, and neither of them were in the service anymore. There were no more reasons for secrets.

He was being an idiot. Ben would tell him so.

_Col. K.L. Cahill, U.S. Army (ret.) <KLCahill@gmail.com> 6:10 AM  
to Marc_

_Hey old friend,_

_If your Friday night is free, I have something I need to discuss with you. It’s better done so in private, probably with a fair amount of liquor, so if you want to have Adi drop you off or me pick you up, I can have Ben drive you back, or you can spend the night here. There’s a pull-out couch in my office that’s new and pretty comfortable. I’ll provide dinner and booze—a couple of steaks, nothing fancy._

_Let me know if that works for you._

_Kal_

_The Winstons <MarcWinston&Fam@gmail.com> 7:52 AM  
to Kal _

_Hey Kal,_

_Sure, I can come over. Adi’s got plans for the night too, so I’ll just crash at your place and go home in the morning. I expect breakfast, too. It sounds like it might be a late night. Everything okay?_

_Marc_

_Col. K.L. Cahill, U.S. Army (ret.) <KLCahill@gmail.com> 7:54 AM  
to Marc_

_Yeah, no impending disasters or anything. Just some history I should catch you up on. Sorry I left you dangling like that. It’s nothing to worry about in terms of future consequences._

_Thanks. See you Friday._

_Kal_

He’d sent the emails on Monday, and felt the impending date hanging over his head like the sword of Damocles through his shrink appointment and the rest of the week. His shrink, Capt. Carlos Figueroa (USAF, ret.), rehearsed him and pronounced him good to go, clapped him on the back and sent him out into the world to worry like a normal person dreading an upcoming root canal.

The week went brutally slowly and absurdly fast at the same time. Ben announced that he’d made plans with Siri and Garen to celebrate his new wheels and leave the house to Khalil and Marc.

“I hope you don’t think I’m abandoning you,” Ben said with some concern. “I just thought it’d be better if it was just the two of you. We’ll probably be out at least until the bar closes.”

“You’re still not legal to drink in this state, correct?” Khalil replied with equal concern, then wanted to kick himself. Ben was probably more of a grownup right now than either Siri or Garen.

But Khalil’s concern didn’t seem to bother him. “Nope, but the bar’s got food and pop and coffee, and the pizza place is only open until eleven. We can help Siri close and give you and Marc a mostly uninterrupted evening together, at least until I slink home in the early hours.”

Khalil took his shoulders and kissed his forehead. “That’s really thoughtful, lad. Thanks. If we’re passed out when you get home, just throw some blankets over us and leave us where we are.”

“You think it’s going to be that bad?” Ben looked really worried now.

“I’ve got no idea. But it’s two old soldiers and a bottle of booze, and the subject matter means we’ll probably get to reminiscing, too, so …” Khalil shrugged.

“Got it,” Ben said and smiled. “Don’t overdo it or I will tease you mercilessly on Saturday.”

Adi came up to the house when she dropped Marc off, looking him over with the Mom Look she occasionally aimed in his direction, but she kissed his cheek and said nothing, so apparently he’d passed inspection.

“Yeah, you look okay,” Marc confirmed, sitting down at the bar as Khalil poured them both a beer. “You look pretty good, in fact. Fit, rested, tanned. I see the garage is going up. You been working on that with Ben?”

Khalil sat down in Ben’s usual spot, took a drink of his beer and nodded. “I’m actually learning a lot from him. His father might have been a first-class asshole, but I think he did a good job training Ben in the trade.”

Marc nodded. “He’s known for good work, even though he’s moody as hell and not very reliable sometimes.”

“He’s not a drinker, I know. Ben said they had a totally dry house.”

“No, I’ve always suspected there’s some mental illness there. Not sure what kind, but he’s always been erratic and paranoid.”

 _Well, there’s as fine a segue as any I could ask for_ , Khalil thought, and jumped in with both feet. “Speaking of which, I had a motherfucker of a flashback on the Fourth. The Nikkaris set off a bunch of M80s and I was right back in Syria, freaking out in the middle of a Russian bombing run. Ben got me down into the basement where it was quieter and kept me company until I came out of it. If his old man has mental health issues too, that would explain how well he handled that.”

Marc’s eyes widened in distress. “Oh, shit, Kal. I’m sorry, man. I know Syria was a shitshow and you were in the thick of it. You’re okay?”

“Yeah,” Khalil nodded, taking another swig of his beer. “It motivated me to get off my ass and find a shrink and finish dealing with it though. I’d started to in Dublin right after I got out of Syria, but I don’t think I was ready yet.”

“And then you decided to retire and started house hunting.”

Khalil nodded again. “It’s my reason for deciding to retire that I want to talk to you about tonight. But let’s eat first. And in the meanwhile, you can tell me what the VFW’s like here.”

Khalil got up and got dinner going, putting potatoes in the oven and making a salad.

“It’s pretty average, I’d say,” Marc replied. “At least for a small rural community. I don’t drop in much. It’s mostly Vietnam era guys, and not too many of our vintage. The younger folks coming back are almost entirely absent. There’s a bar and a TV and a pool table and a mess hall that hosts a couple of annual dinners, but that’s about it. They’re not active in the community or anything, or not much. I think there’s a trivia night once a month or something.”

“So no community programs? No counseling services? No AA? Nothing like that?”

Marc shook his head. “I wish. There’s no funds for it. We’ve got some pretty fucked up vets around here who could really use the help. And like you said, the nearest center’s more than an hour away.”

“And booked pretty solid. I was lucky to get in when I did.”

“I smell a Cahill plan brewing,” Marc said suspiciously.

“Yeah, I’ve been thinking that I live here now, and I should start investing in the community. There must be a lot of vets around here, with the base so nearby.”

Marc nodded. “Lots of them. Probably a third of the population. They just retired here when the base closed. And a lot of their kids join up when they’re looking for a way to pay for college. What are you thinking of?”

“Maybe working with the VFW or Wounded Warriors or somebody like that to set up a counseling center here. Sponsor some programs, training, whatever’s needed. Spruce up the VFW hall, make it more attractive to younger folks to give them a place to trade stories.”

“’The Cahill Counseling Center,’ huh?” Marc smirked.

“Oh fuck no,” Khalil made a horrified face. “I don’t want my name on any of this shite. I’ve no desire to be the town Big Man. You should know me better than that.”

“Whoa, just kidding, Kal. You’re really serious about this?”

“I’ve been thinking of asking Manizha for some advice on how to go about it. She’s a lot more savvy about this sort of thing than I am. NGOs and nonprofits and not-for-profits.”

“Pushy do-gooders, you mean,” Marc said, sounding a little disgusted.

“They can be,” Khalil agreed. “And top-heavy money wasters. Then you have people like Médecins Sans Frontières, who do really good work.”

“True. Well, I can introduce you to some of the VFW folks, if you want. We’ll go have a beer with them some night.”

“Sounds good. Thanks.”

By then, dinner was ready and the two of them ate over nothing more than companionable chitchat about Marc’s daughters, town drunks, idiot tourists, and Ben’s new truck. When they were done, Khalil poured them coffee and cleaned up, refusing Marc’s offer of help.

“Twasn’t much in the way of dishes to begin with. Sit tight.”

They took their coffee into the living area, sinking into opposite ends of the couch after Khalil had brought glasses and a bottle of scotch over too.

Marc raised an eyebrow at him.

Khalil drew a deep breath and plunged in. “I have to tell you about this man I met…”

He unloaded the whole story, from how they’d met, through the stupidly happy, too few years he and Michael had spent together and their plans to retire to the Caribbean, to the horrific way Michael had died and the closed casket concealing it, and Michael’s family shutting him out. For the first time in a couple of years, he’d unearthed the photo he carried in his phone of the two of them in Paris, a selfie at a sidewalk café, each of them grinning like a stupid, besotted fool. Marc smiled at that.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he said when Khalil stopped. Marc was not a crier, the way so many American men weren’t, but his eyes were wet. He wiped them with the back of his hand. “I wondered why you’d suddenly decided to retire. And up here of all places. I suspected something happened in Syria, but you hadn’t wanted to talk about it so I didn’t dig. Maybe I should have.”

Khalil shook his head. “None of this is on you, Marc. I couldn’t have talked about this then anyway. I just knew I had to get out of the business that had killed Michael and as far away from where he’d died as I could. Dublin wasn’t far enough. And I needed to be around people who really knew me, like you and Adi do. It just took so damn long to get here, and I haven’t tried to deal with this since it happened. Not really. I got some counseling for a bit in Dublin, but it didn’t take. When the whole story spilled out of me after the flashback, Ben pushed me to go back again, and he was right.”

“I’m glad he did. If he hadn’t, I would be,” Marc agreed. “I’m sorry I never got a chance to meet Michael. He sounds like a great guy, Kal. Somebody who’d be good for you, and to you. Dutch, you said?”

Khalil nodded. “From another diplomatic family, but not like mine. The civil servants who keep it running for everyone else. We still had similar stories about growing up all over the world though, and not really having a home country. He’d been with the UN peacekeepers for while, then with a Dutch NGO doing relief work in Africa before getting into security work. I think you’d have liked him, you and Adi. He had a great sense of humor, a little goofy. He loved puns, especially multilingual ones and he was disturbingly good at those.”

Marc kept asking questions, as Ben had said he would, and Khalil kept answering them until, for the first time since before his death, Michael was a beloved presence in his mind again. He allowed himself to remember what he had loved about the man, and the things they had enjoyed doing together, the personality quirks that had endeared him to Khalil, how he’d felt in his arms. He came alive again in memory and it was not nearly as painful as he’d thought it would be.

“I miss him so much. I didn’t realize how much,” Khalil said, well into his cups. The scotch bottle, which had started out full, was half empty.

“You’re always going to,” Marc told him and Khalil nodded. Marc wasn’t nearly as drunk, figuring he needed to stay moderately sober tonight.

“No, I know. But it’s starting to hurt less now that other people know about him too.”

“Yeah, you know Adi’s going to grill you too, and wonder why you didn’t bring him here for inspection. You better have a good answer for that.”

Khalil gave a wry laugh. “You’re right, I’d better. I wish now that we had told you and Adi. Of all the people who would have kept it quiet until we could be open about it, you two would have.”

And from there, somehow, the talk shifted, as Khalil had thought it might, to their own experiences together, at which point Marc got a lot less careful with how much he drank. Finally, they stumbled upstairs together, where Khalil had had the foresight to already make up the pullout and leave a folded towel and washcloth at the end of it. Neither of them heard Ben come in and go upstairs to his own room, and none of them were up very early the next day.

Ben, as usual, was the last one down, to find the two old soldiers drinking Bloody Marys at the bar and looking very much the worse for wear.

“Ah, a little hair of the dog, eh, guys? Had a bit to drink last night?” Ben said with a cheeky cheer he never displayed in the morning, clapping the two of them on the shoulders and heading for the coffeepot.

Marc looked at Khalil as if to say, _your circus, your monkey._

“We could swirly him,” Khalil said, wincing and rubbing his forehead.

Marc shook his head and then regretted it. “Toilet’s not dirty enough. We could lock him in that tiny shower stall of his and turn on the cold water.”

“It’s 85 degrees out. I don’t think that would bother him,” Khalil responded sadly.

“Why don’t you have a pool yet? Or at least a hot tub?”

“No time. Next summer, probably.”

“Too late.”

“I’m sure he’ll do something else that warrants being tossed into it by then,” Khalil assured Marc. “We can do it once for each offense. I’ll keep a list.”

“You two are hilarious,” Ben said fondly. “And in case you’re wondering, and even if you’re not, why, yes, I had a great time last night, thanks.”

“Did you, now?” Khalil said, happy for the lad, despite his own raging hangover. “I’m glad.”

“Yeah, it’s been too long since the three of us got together like that. And it was really great to have the means to do that, Kal. Thanks,” he said a little more seriously. “Now, how about I make you guys one of Kal’s gloriously greasy and carb-loaded fry-ups?”

Marc reacted with horror, but Khalil said, “Yes, please,” to Ben, and “C’mon, you know it’s just what we need right now,” to Marc.

“You’re a lying bastard and I don’t trust you any farther than I can throw you, either of you,” Marc groaned, having had said fry-ups on similar previous occasions. “Yeah, all right. Whatever. I am too old for this shit. If I hurl this up in the car on the way home, you get to clean it up.”

“Hey,” Ben objected. “I’m the one driving you home and I had nothing to do with this.”

Marc gave him the evil eye. “Says you.”

Adi called later to chastise him. “You broke my husband, Kal,” she scolded, not very seriously. “He still smells like whiskey and is lying on the couch moaning about what a dastardly son of a bitch you are. How are you, though? Marc told me what you wanted to talk about. I hope that’s okay.”

“Of course it is, Adi love. I wouldn’t ask him to keep secrets from you. Despite an equally awful hangover, I’m actually okay, for the first time in a while. Or at least better than I’ve been.”

And he was. He felt—lighter, somehow. He knew everything wasn't fine yet, but it was beginning to be.

“I know I’m not Marc, but I hope you know you can always talk to me, Kal,” Adi said gently. “I feel like I missed a really big part of your life that it seems important to know about.”

“Next time you and Marc come over, I promise I’ll tell you about him. I think you would have liked each other. He was a good man.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to pick anyone that wasn’t, Colonel.”

 _I hope you feel the same way when Ben and I tell you about us,_ Khalil thought as they hung up.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> History, sex, christenings, fears, plans for the future, a confession. NSFW.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lalalalalalala I can't hear all you predicters of who will be the next president. My current preferred sand is on this server, and I'm sticking my head right in it. Join me if you'd like.

The electrician came in to put in the garage wiring as August edged into September. Ben had designed it with a side opening door and ordered an industrial motor rather than the typical overhead garage door “because those things always freeze up when it gets too cold and that’s the worst time for it.” It opened the entire front of the garage so there was ample room for maneuvering both the tank and Ben’s truck inside. They’d lost part of the porch in connecting it to the side door, but since that side faced north, Khalil counted it not much of a loss. The new garage would insulate the house from the cold a little more. And he was already planning to extend the porch around the other side and back. Ben had also lightly insulated the garage and covered the interior plywood walls in pegboard. The chest freezer, they decided, would live in the basement after all, but Ben added sliding overhead brackets for container storage as well as shelves along the back wall. And remote controlled lights on the eaves.

After his conversations with Marc and Adi, Khalil threw himself into his therapy, wanting to be done with grieving and flashbacks and live without encumbrances in this new present he was creating with Ben. It made for some very rough days and shaky, distracted drives home. After nearly wrecking himself one afternoon, he starting asking Ben to drive over with him—a minor sacrifice on Ben’s part since Khalil’s appointment was first thing in the morning, and 90 minutes away.

One particularly bad day left him shivering in the passenger seat of the tank on one of the last hot days of summer until Ben had to turn on the heat for him. He wanted to crawl into bed and pull the covers over his head when they finally reached home, but he knew if he did that, he might not get up for weeks. He lay on the couch instead with an arm over his eyes and tried not to think about the things he was remembering, things he had blocked out for decades, things from missions long past that he’d never bothered or been able to deal with at the time. Like infiltrating a Taliban cell, only to have them find out who he was somehow. He’d spent months in their company before being unmasked, and a week being tortured afterward. Marc and the rest of his team had gotten his ass out of that shitstorm before his captors had had time to execute him, but it had been a near thing. He still had scars from that little party, and it had never stopped being the stuff of nightmares, but he had managed for years to push it out of his conscious mind. Now it was all he could think about.

“Hey, you,” Ben said softly, sitting down on the floor beside him. “I brought you some soup and crackers. Just miso and tofu. It might settle your stomach.” Khalil had thrown up twice on the way home, on the side of the road.

Without taking his arm off his eyes, Khalil caressed Ben’s head with his other hand. “Thanks, lad. I’m not sure it’ll go down or stay down.”

“Give it a try. I’ve got a bucket here in case it doesn’t sit well. But you should eat something, even if it’s just crackers. And I’ve got a glass of the local cure for bad stomachs: Vernor’s ginger ale. Try some of that, first. It’s fizzy and very gingery. We all swear by it. Come on.”

Ben coaxed him upright and gave him the glass first. He sniffed it and made a dubious face before taking a sip, feeling almost assaulted by the aggressive ginger, then waited to see how it went down, and if it was going to stay. Apparently the locals were on to something, because it did stay down, and after a few more sips, he felt a little better. Ben handed him a couple of crackers, which he ate dutifully. When those stayed down, he tried the soup. And so Ben managed to get some food into him.

“Do you want to talk?” Ben said, when he’d taken the dishes away, leaving the bucket just in case.

“Thank you, laddie, but that’s what my shrink is for. You can’t really help me sort this out; it’s work I have to do.”

“You don’t have to do it alone,” Ben said, a little hurt at the rebuff. He’d sat himself down on the floor in the same spot he’d been in before, beside the couch and near Khalil.

Khalil reached over again and ran his fingers through Ben’s hair, which was growing long and revealed itself to be a beautiful red gold, gone nearly blond in this summer’s sun and silken to the touch. “It’s not that I don’t value your support, lad. But this is—this is baggage I want—I need—to unpack and burn. I don’t want to bring it to our relationship. I’ve had it too long already. I don’t want it coloring anything between us.”

Ben picked up his hand and interlaced their fingers silently, thinking. After a while, he nodded and said, “yeah, I get that. I’ve got stuff I’d like to leave behind too. I want to be, not a new person for you, but a better one. A little less chewed up.”

Khalil nodded. “Exactly. ‘A little less chewed up’ is about all I can hope for at my age,” he snorted. “That doesn’t mean we have to struggle with our demons alone. I feel very well taken care of today, between you and Carlos, in very different but equally important and necessary ways.”

Ben nodded. “I can see that, too. I see what you’re saying. But I want you to know that I’ll always listen to whatever you need to say.”

Khalil leaned over and kissed Ben’s forehead. “I know. That open heart is one of the things I value about you.” Khalil have him a sly smile. “I do have a request you could fulfill.”

“Yes, sir?” Ben said with a mischievous grin.

“I would like the blanket off my bed, and for you to curl up under it, with me, here. Carlos prescribed human contact, and you’re the human I want to be in contact with.”

They spent the afternoon dozing together, Ben fitted to the curve of Khalil’s long body on the deep couch, reading a paperback novel while Khalil’s breath warmed the back of his neck in the rhythm of sleep.

Khalil felt a bit more himself when he woke from the long afternoon on the couch: less nauseated, not as tired, a little hungry. He had an armful of warm young man snuggled against him and a tantalizing bit of sunburned neck to kiss. So he did. Ben, who was not asleep, dropped his book and turned himself to face Khalil to kiss him back. First his eyes, then the broken nose and finally—the goal all along—a tongue questing against his lips. Khalil opened to him with a hitch in his breath, remembering the fire last time, but this kiss was slower and sweeter than that one. It was a tentative re-exploration of remembered territory, a slow mapping of space and structure, a tickle to his palate, a slow glide along his own tongue, a tongue-tip lapping at his lips, a nip and tug to his lower lip. A hand slid under his T-shirt, found a nipple and rubbed a calloused thumb over it. Khalil heard himself rumbling in pleasure.

He wrapped his arms tight around the incubus and heaved himself over on his back, so Ben was lying on top of him. A hard erection encased in jeans pressed against him, his own cock thickening and trying to escape its confinement in answer. Ben leaned back and pushed Khalil’s shirt up, the callouses on Ben’s hands sandpapering over his skin in a delicious way, tweaking his nipples and sending jolts to his groin. This time, it was Khalil’s turn to wriggle his big hands inside Ben’s jeans, kneading the muscular ass, pulling Ben against him.

“Oh god, Khalil, I want you,” Ben whimpered. “Please—”

“Up, up,” Khalil growled, reaching for the fastenings of first Ben’s jeans—already half undone, or he’d not have gotten his hands in them—then his own, pushing down both their jeans and shorts until there was only bare flesh, the two of them thrusting and bucking against each other in a desperate dance. Khalil pushed back into Ben’s mouth, devouring as he bucked up against the lithe young young body thrusting against him, hands closed hard enough to bruise on his ass. “Christ and Allah, laddie,” he cried, breaking the kiss and thrusting up hard against Ben’s groin as he came, their cocks sliding together.

“Kal, fuck! Nnnnnnnn!” Ben was right behind him, letting out a long moan, eyes rolling up as he arched back in a picture of lust fulfilled. He shuddered against Khalil in his release and let his head hang for a moment before folding back down onto him with a sigh.

Ben huddled against him as Khalil tried to catch his breath. “Well,” he said after a few minutes, trying not to laugh, “we’ve christened the couch and the kitchen so far. Where next?”

Khalil did laugh, suddenly brimming with happiness. “You’re an incubus, Benjamin Kenner,” he said, slapping Ben’s ass. “Stop picking such awkward damned places to fuck.”

“It’s kinda fun,” he protested. “I don’t see you stopping me.”

“Because you wind me up like a watch spring!” Khalil exclaimed, but he was smirking in that lopsided smile. “I can’t resist you,” he whispered into Ben’s hair. “You brighten the dark places in my heart.”

Ben leaned up on Khalil’s chest and looked him in the eye. “Can’t be that dark in there, sir. Too much good comes out of it.”

That night, Khalil woke thrashing himself out of another nightmare of his time with the Taliban, this one more vivid than usual, soaked in an atmosphere of despair, full of the smells of fear and degradation, and limned with pain. Every place they’d injured him hurt like it was freshly done, the pain fading slowly as he sat up in bed shivering in remembered shock, with his arms around his knees, trying to slow his heart and throw off the dream. The lack of ambient light left the room full of shadows that could be anything, anywhere, and made it hard to ground himself. He reached over and turned the light on, revealing his new but now-familiar room: bed, table, chest of drawers, chair, window, closet door. Mirror and paintings on the wall. Not a cell. Not a dingy, filthy basement. Not chained to a pipe like a dog. He fumbled for the glass of water on the bedside table, spilling a little, and took a drink, throat raw. It was hardly surprising when Ben knocked on his door. His throat was sore enough that he thought he’d probably been yelling in his sleep.

“Hey, everything okay?” Ben said quietly.

Khalil nodded. “Just a dream. An old one. I’m sorry if I woke you.”

“It sounded pretty bad,” Ben said, frowning. “Do you want some company?”

“If you can stand to let me sit here for a while with the light on until I can shake the rest of this off.”

“Sure. Do what you need to do. If you need something to clutch, I’m available.”

That made Khalil smile. “I will probably take you up on that when I can stand to turn the light off again.”

Ben slipped in beside him and lay down, propping himself up on one elbow. “I hate those really clingy dreams. The stuff that sticks with you. It’s like getting beaten up all over again, but without the actual bruises and stitches and broken bones.”

Khalil gritted his teeth. Bad enough adults did such things to each other. “Have I mentioned I hate that your father did that to you?”

“Sorry,” Ben said ruefully, “you’re trying to shake off one nightmare and I’m giving you another. We seem to be in similar headspaces this week. I wonder if our shrinks are calling each other and comparing notes.”

Khalil chuckled, appreciating the gallows humor. He caressed Ben’s head then ran his fingers through his own hair, focusing on his breathing until his hands stopped shaking. Ben’s warm and solid hand on his leg beneath the covers helped bring him back to the here and now, too. Finally, the shadows in his head receded enough that he could lie down and turn out the light, though he wasn’t sure he’d sleep again. Ben moved into his arms, tucking himself under Khalil’s chin, murmuring, “I’ve got you,” and he was surprised to realize that he suddenly felt protected in a way he hadn’t since he and Michael had shared the same bed. Khalil closed his eyes in an attempt to at least rest, without much hope of sleep. But the sound of Ben’s soft, even breathing lulled him back into peaceful sleep until his usual waking time.

The UPS truck rolled up a few days later and delivered another laptop and a large flatscreen monitor with Ben’s name on the boxes. A flatpack arrived a few days after that, requiring Ben to ask for help wrestling it up into his room. It turned out to be an adjustable drafting desk that fit into one of the dormers.

“What’re you up to, if you don’t mind my asking?” Khalil said, after they’d bullied the desk package upstairs. The laptop and monitor sat off to one side yet, still in their boxes.

Ben sat on the floor and began cutting open the latest box. “I’ve been looking at architecture schools and they all require one thing I don’t have: a portfolio. I could hand-draw one, but I’d also like to teach myself some drafting software before I start applying anywhere, and that required a laptop with more _umph_ and a bigger screen than I need for just surfing the web and looking at porn. I’ve got enough disadvantages with my crackhead home schooling background that I thought getting a head start wouldn’t hurt.”

“You’ve also got your phenomenal college board scores,” Khalil reminded him, helping lift the parts out of the box.

“The place I’m starting to get most excited about has open enrollment, so that won’t help me much. It’s really competitive and job-oriented, so I’d like to have a body of real and potential projects to show.” Ben looked up from pulling the plastic wrapping off the legs of the desk, a little sadness and apprehension in his face. “One thing, Khalil: it’s in Boston.”

Khalil’s heart sank a little at that, as he’d known it would when the time came. “That’s a beautiful city,” he said. “I think you’d enjoy it. Do you have some projects in mind already?”

“One or two, but if you have ideas, I could use them.”

“I do.” Khalil told him about both the clinic he watned to build and the refurbishing of the VFW hall. “It would be great if I could go in with plans already sketched out, as a place to start. But those might not be grand enough for what you’re looking for.”

“No, they’re exactly right. I’m not interested in grand buildings or becoming some kind of starchitect. I’d like to come back here and build beautiful, useful, sustainable buildings, that work with the landscape, like what we’re starting to do with this house, the solar electricity, ambient heating, recycling water.”

Khalil raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t know we were doing those things. Are we?”

Ben seemed puzzled. “I thought you’d seen my father’s plans for this place and that was part of why you bought it.”

Khalil shook his head. “No, just the features already here. Can you show me the rest?”

Ben made a frustrated face. “I don’t have a copy of the plans. I’ve seen them, and I have a pretty good idea of what he planned, though … Maybe I could recreate them too, as part of the portfolio. Use this house as the kind of master vision for what I want to do locally. Do you have a site for the clinic?

“Not yet, but I can check with the real estate people about what’s available and see what you think would be appropriate.”

Ben nodded. “That sounds like a plan. It’s going to be a while before I get proficient enough to get a portfolio together. Six months or so, at least, I’m thinking. So that’s like 18 months before I actually get into a school.” Ben stood up and walked over to insert himself into Khalil’s arms. “We’ve got some time together yet, to iron things out. So it won’t be so hard when I go somewhere else for a while.”

It was that moment when Khalil realized Ben was actually thinking hard about how to make a relationship with him work, without stunting himself in the process. That was the thing he’d been most afraid of, and Ben had taken him seriously about it.

Khalil pulled back a bit and tipped the lad’s chin up so he could look into his eyes. “This sounds like a great plan,” he agreed. “And I want you to know that I’m proud to know you, Benjamin Kenner. And I’m proud of the man you’re becoming.” Khalil kissed him gently.

“That’s what I want, Kal. I want to be someone you’re proud and happy to be with.”

And maybe they were in similar headspaces after all, though it wasn’t at all funny. Early the next week, Khalil fielded a call from Ben’s counselor, asking him to come pick him up because he wasn’t fit to drive. It was a short drive, just into town, but Khalil drove the whole way with a bit of terror in his heart, hoping the lad was okay. He arrived to find Ben sitting, not in the waiting room, but in one of the empty rooms where counselors saw patients, red-eyed and slumped over with his elbows on his knees. He straightened up a bit as Khalil pulled a chair close and sat down across from him.

“Hey, boyo,” Khalil said quietly, as though gentling an animal. “Want to go home? Or do you want to sit a bit yet?”

“Home,” Ben said, but there was a trace of bitterness in it. It was a cool day, the first of the leaves turning after last week’s heat, and Ben huddled in his chair like he was freezing, though he was wearing a jean jacket.

He was silent all the way to the tank, silent on the ride back to the house, where he, very like Khalil had, curled up on the couch, hugging a pillow. Khalil took the stairs two at a time and brought down the blanket from his bed to spread over Ben, who looked up at him and gave him a wan smile. Khalil sat beside him, stroking Ben’s hair. “Do you want to talk?”

Ben shook his head. “Sleep,” he said. “Need a nap.”

Khalil got up and leaned over him, kissing his temple. “I’ll let you do that, then. I’ll just be in the kitchen.”

Ben nodded and closed his eyes, curling up tighter under Khalil’s blanket.

He padded out into the kitchen a couple of hours later and made a fresh pot of coffee, then poured a cup and joined Khalil at the bar. As though it were morning, he said nothing until he was about halfway through his mug, holding it in both hands as though afraid he might drop it.

“My shrink thinks my father might be schizophrenic,” he said in a low voice Khalil had to strain to hear. He pushed his laptop away and turned in his seat, business forgotten, all his attention on Ben.

“Aye? Marc mentioned he thought there might be some mental illness in him,” Khalil said cautiously. “What made your shrink say that?”

“My father used to … he would get these ideas in his head, from reading the papers, that the world was ending. He’d herd my mother and me into the basement, into the tunnel between it and the greenhouse and make us sit there, for days sometimes. Eating old, cold food, listening to him rave about the End Times, how only the righteous would be saved and we were the righteous and we’d be alone in the world. Once we were down there for a whole month, until my mother finally got sick of it and marched upstairs to show him the world was still there and going on its merry way. It wasn’t often, maybe half a dozen times when I was a kid, but it was kind of terrifying. Alisa, my shrink, said that sounds like schizophrenic delusions. Paranoia. He had a lot of that. Never trusted anyone, always thought people were out to get him. The devil was in so many people. Never him, though, no matter what he did.”

Khalil moved off his stool and sat on the one beside Ben, putting a big hand on his back. “You’re afraid you might have it too?”

Ben nodded. “I’m about the age where it manifests, if it’s going to. It runs in families. So it’s possible.”

“But not probable,” Khalil said flatly.

Ben rubbed his forehead. “Hard to say. They still don’t know what causes it, what the risk factors are. I’m sure growing up in a completely insecure home with one doesn’t help.”

“Alisa hasn’t said you’re showing signs of it, has she?”

“No,” he said softly. “I’m just—scared.” He turned to Khalil, eyes bright with threatening tears. “I just, I just found you, and this life, and all these possibilities. I don’t want to lose them, or you.”

“Why would you think you’d lose me?” Khalil said in surprise.

“Because who would want to be saddled with a raving nutbag for the rest of their life?” he said bitterly.

Khalil took Ben’s cup from his hand, put it on the counter, and whipped Ben’s stool around so they were facing each other. “You are not your father, boyo. And you are not alone. There are good drugs for mental illness now, including schizophrenia, and I would make sure you got them if you needed them. This is not something that would come between us, Ben. I don’t throw people away because they have health problems. I wish your father could have gotten treatment for what ails him too. And I did not see you hotfooting it the other way when I was puking my guts out by the side of the road like a carsick kid after my last session, or leaving me to fend with my own nightmares. Why would you think I’d do that to you?” Khalil cupped Ben’s face in his hands, brought their foreheads together. “You listen to me, O. Benjamin Kenner. I love you, and I want you in my life, no matter what. Is that clear? Whatever shite there is in the road, we’ll shovel it up together.”

Ben started to laugh raggedly, so the kiss caught him with his mouth already open. Khalil took advantage of that to slide his tongue inside and lap at Ben’s mouth, tasting of doctored coffee and himself. “Sweet lad,” Khalil murmured, brushing the tears from Ben’s cheeks with this thumbs. “It’s all right. We’ll be all right. Finish your coffee and let’s go get your truck.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marc gets nosy. Adi encourages bad behavior. Khalil makes a list. Ben helps him check it off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW. Very NSFW. 
> 
> This took bloody forever to write. I blame the election.

Marc and Adi came for one last dinner on the porch before winter. It was a fine day for it, warm and not too breezy, the trees at the edge of the yard beginning to show their full colors, birds squabbling on the feeder with the squirrels. Khalil decided to not challenge Marc’s palate too much this time and made a pork tenderloin with a cherry-thyme pan sauce, and roasted potatoes and carrots. Ben made another pie, apple this time, with vanilla bean ice cream.

Adi mentioned her new project of expanding the local dojo and bringing in more girls. Khalil perked up at that.

“I didn’t know there was a local dojo. What do they teach?”

“Well, it’s less a single-discipline dojo than a place to learn martial arts. Tae Kwon Do, mostly. There are a couple of Karate black belts. I told them I’d teach self-defense for women and some Judo.”

“Could you use an Aikido instructor?”

Adi’s eyes lit up. “From a former Special Forces black belt? Boy, could we! Marc is teaching one of the Tae Kwon Do classes.”

“It’ll be just like old times then,” Khalil said, looking indecently pleased. “The three of us in the dojo, me kicking your husband’s ass for the edification of the inexperienced.”

Marc put on a woebegone face. “There are days I wish I wasn’t so good at taking falls.”

Adi patted his cheek. “That was what I loved about you. I thought: _Gee that man looks good flat on his back with the wind knocked out of him,_ the first time I saw you.” That made all of them laugh, even Marc, who leaned over and kissed his wife.

“Were you Army too, Adi?” Ben said, surprised.

She nodded. “Not a lifer like these two maniacs. I flew choppers for a couple of tours, when I was young and stupid, and then got out. Right before they ‘let’ women into combat, which was always a joke. We were never out of it. Then I went off to college with the GI Bill, like so many of my peers. I still fly for one of the aviation companies that moved into the base after it closed. Mostly rich hunters and business people; the occasional search and rescue.”

“Dope smuggling into Canada…” Kal teased.

“Har har,” Adi said and stuck her tongue out. “I’ll have you know I helped break up a human trafficking ring with the Mounties two years ago. Marc deputized me, even, and I had to strap on my service weapon and everything.”

“Whoa,” Ben said, eyes round. “I’m sitting at a table of total badasses. I feel even more inadequate than usual all of a sudden.”

“You’re twenty, sweetheart,” she said, patting his arm. “Plenty of time to work on your badassery. Speaking of which, I hear you’re making college plans.”

“I am,” he said, beaming, then described the school he wanted to apply to and his efforts in getting up to speed and building the necessary portfolio. “When the time comes, I’m going to need recommendation letters, and I was wondering if I could tap you two, besides Kal. It’s not like I have teachers I can ask.”

“Of course,” Adi confirmed. “Can’t hurt to have the Town Sheriff on your side.”

“I promise not to mention I once suspected you of building a meth lab in Kal’s house,” Marc said.

“Or that you once suspected me of letting him?” Kal asked innocently.

Adi rolled her eyes. “You know who else you might want to ask? Mrs. Newsome, at the library. I think she’s one of the first people in town who realized how smart you are.”

Ben looked thoughtful. “Its probably her fault I want to study architecture, with that _Architectural Digest_ subscription she got for the library. She might like to know that, too. I’ll go see her. Thanks for the idea, Adi.”

She reached across the table and gripped his arm. “It’s so _good_ to see you thriving like this. I’m so excited to see where you’ll go!”

“Me too,” Khalil said, giving Ben’s head a fond caress that turned into hair ruffling.

They washed up while Adi and Marc sat at the bar trading stories with Khalil about their service experiences, some of it hilarious, some not so. Ben wheedled one of the “thrown out of the bar” stories out of Marc that was so outrageous that even Adi looked appalled.

“That’s the stool he was sitting on, too,” Khalil added. “It’s always the one he sits on when he comes over. I think his ass remembers and gravitates toward it.”

“It is not! I tossed mine out the window.”

“ _Through_ the window, you mean,” Khalil corrected. “I rescued it while the MPs were dealing with you and bought it from the bar owner. _And_ paid your damages, dumbass, which is why you didn’t end up in the stockade. You don’t even remember what that guy said to you to set you off, do you?”

Marc mumbled something and took a surly swig of his beer, giving Khalil his patented look of death. Adi burst out laughing and smacked the back of his head so the bottle banged on his teeth. “I’m glad Khalil was there to save you from your stupid ways when you were young, Baby.”

“I feel like I’m missing out,” Ben said wistfully.

“Oh, honey, that’s what college is for,” Adi assured him with a wink. “And it don’t matter how old you are. Trust me. I had me some very good times in college at just about your age.”

“Just remember to cook the meth in somebody else’s room,” Khalil advised.

Ben rolled his eyes. “That’s never going away, is it?”

“Probably not,” Khalil said cheerfully, bumping him with a hip. Ben bumped him back and soon they were snapping towels at each other, until Khalil got him in a headlock and stuck a wet finger in his ear, at which point the two of them collapsed with laughter. Adi gave Marc a knowing look.

_The Winstons <MarcWinston&Fam@gmail.com> 11:55 PM  
to Kal _

_Are you two fucking? Not that it’s any of my business._

_Col. K.L. Cahill, U.S. Army (ret.) <KLCahill@gmail.com> 6:22 AM  
to Marc_

_Not that is, no._ 😊

_The Winstons <MarcWinston&Fam@gmail.com> 7:34 AM  
to Kal _

_Fine. Adi thinks it’s good you’re both happy. You get your heart broken, don’t come crying to me. I’m going to tell him you’re ticklish._

_Col. K.L. Cahill, U.S. Army (ret.) <KLCahill@gmail.com> 7:38 AM  
to Marc_

_You fucker. Just wait until I get you on a mat again._

_The Winstons <MarcWinston&Fam@gmail.com> 7:44 AM  
to Kal _

_Bring it. See you at the dojo, Sensei Cahill. And thanks for dinner, by the way. Nice to know you can cook American food._

Khalil was not quite smiling when he deleted the email thread from Marc. He had mixed feelings about the cat being out of the bag, even if it was only to him and Adi. If it was apparent to them, it was probably fairly obvious to other people that he and Ben were more than just friends, or mentor and student, or landlord and boarder, or whatever others thought their relationship was initially, and he was all too acutely aware of the kind of reactions that could bring in a small, fairly conservative town. He and Michael, two adults of nearly the same age, had been cautious for the same reason, and this relationship had so much more potential for blowback. He didn’t fear for himself; he’d been in combat and pretty much anything else paled in comparison. But Ben had suffered enough physical and emotional abuse for two lifetimes already, and he didn’t want any more of it for the lad. What a world, he thought, that any kind of love between two consenting adults should meet with violent objections from others.

They were still not regularly sharing a bed, though Khalil was beginning to wonder why. There was so much comfort for both of them in sleeping and waking together, especially on bad days, of which they’d both had more than a few. He’d already begun to think of this house as theirs, not his, to see it as a joint project, a shared asset, a place they could both call home. Whether Ben decided to stay with him beyond college or not, Khalil would always think of it that way. They had worked on it together and it would always carry the marks of Ben’s presence.

In his usual way, Khalil started making a list to clear his head.

_Talk to Ben about:_

  1. _Turning his room into a studio and moving downstairs_
  2. _Designing and building a guest house_
  3. _Filling in the damn tunnel_
  4. _What to do with the basement_
  5. _Putting his name on the deed to the house_
  6. _What to do about the goddamn squirrels eating all the birdseed_
  7. _How out he wants to be around here_
  8. _Safe sex_
  9. _Did he see any bats this summer_



Ben caught him at the last of it with a groggy kiss and a raised eyebrow. “I did see bats this summer,” he said as he groped for the mugs in the cupboard. “And heard them in the boxes outside my window. I think they’ll be back. So fewer mosquitoes for us, hopefully. Coffee first, then the rest.”

“Good to know. I’ll cross that off then,” Khalil acknowledged, putting a line through the last item, and went back to reading the news while Ben downed a shot of espresso and filled a mug with coffee. About fifteen minutes later he shook himself and turned to Khalil with a look of determination.

“Okay, I think I’m awake enough for this now.”

Khalil chuckled. “It’s not dire. All of it can wait until after breakfast, lad. We don’t even have to talk about all of it today.”

“You sure? I get worried when you start making lists that aren’t about construction or food. Lemme see it, at least.”

Khalil handed it over and watched as the color drained from Ben’s face. “Oh, shit, Khalil. How the hell did you get bats and squirrels on a list like this?” he muttered. “I definitely need food before we talk about this.”

So Khalil, feeling a little guilty, made pancakes and bacon and a fresh pot of coffee.

When the dishes were in the dishwasher and they both had fresh mugs in front of them, Ben said, “What brought this on?”

“Well… Marc in part, who thinks somehow that, since I told him about Michael, he’s now my big brother and feels free to horn in on my romantic relationships,” Khalil said, making a face, though he actually thought it was both funny and touching. “And just thinking about where we are, you and I, as a couple.”

“Couple.” Ben said in a flat voice. Khalil felt his heart sink.

“I mean, are we one?” he backtracked. “Maybe we should start there. What do you see us as?”

“When you say couple, you mean like Adi and Marc?” Ben asked, looking apprehensive.

“Not necessarily. I mean two people devoted to each other though. How devoted is up to them to define.”

“So not, like, married.”

“Like I said, up to us to define.”

“’Cause I don’t think I’m ready for Adi and Marc levels of devotion, Khalil.”

“And I can see why you wouldn’t be,” Khalil agreed with a little relief. This was navigable, and not unexpected. “That age disparity between us makes for a lot of differences in experience and expectations. You’re just starting to find out who you are and what you want from life and other people. At your age, I was doing a lot of sport fucking.”

Ben burst out laughing. “What a term! Though I guess that’s what it is. I don’t think that appeals to me, much,” he said. “I can watch porn if all I want to do is get myself off.”

“Sex can be recreational, or just comforting, with friends, or people you don’t intend to be in a romantic relationship with but know well enough to like. But fucking complete strangers never appealed to me, either,” Khalil admitted. “Did that not go well with Garen?”

“No, it was fine. And fun. Just not—I dunno. Not enough in some way I can’t define. That’s my stab at sport fucking I guess. Not very satisfying. Maybe I am looking for something more. More connection.”

Khalil made a face. “I’m sorry. I was mostly looking for comfort, or to burn off anxiety, and that’s hard to find a partner for too, or at least it was in the places I went looking for it.”

They fell silent for a while, Khalil contemplating his past and Ben perhaps contemplating his present and future. After a few minutes, Ben’s hand found Khalil’s and squeezed it. They sat at the bar with their fingers interlaced and continued to think until their mugs were empty.

“You know,” Ben started finally, still not letting go of Khalil’s hand, “I’m really excited about school. About meeting new people, living somewhere new, learning new things. But at the same time, the idea of leaving you hurts like hell. I’m going to miss you like crazy, Khalil. It’s going to be really hard being away from you. But I know I have to go, I know I have to do this, not just because you’d expect me to, but because there’s something in me pushing me out this door. I’d never left the fucking town, like so many of these other yahoos up here, until I met you. And I see what traveling the world made you and I want that too. I want to understand it the way you do. I want it to make me the kind of person who understands you better, too, for the things you’ve done and the places you’ve been, and have experiences of my own that will shape me the way yours shaped you. That means leaving here.”

“That’s the Hero’s Journey, laddie. Leaving home. Having adventures. Growing. Have you read Joseph Campbell?” Khalil asked.

Ben laughed. “I got it off your bookshelf, sir. I thought if you’d read it, it was probably worth reading. So I know the hero always comes home. Is that what you’re trying to tell me?”

“Aye, but sometimes it’s a long, long journey, and home isn’t always the place he left. I expect you’re going to change tremendously in some ways when you leave here. And I may not be the person you’ve loved when you come back. We’ll both be different. You’ll be older and wiser and more experienced, and I’ll be older and crankier and more set in my ways. And you may find you’ve outgrown this town and this house and me. But that’s a risk we always take in loving people, that we’ll grow apart and not together.”

“So we’ll have to work on growing together. Because as of right now, that’s what I want. I want to come home to you, when I’m done with my solo adventures. So we can adventure together. I don’t think I’m going to want to sleep around while I’m off adventuring—”

“—You can’t know that now, laddie,” Khalil interrupted. “And it wouldn’t be fair of me to ask that of you because you’ve not had that chance to sow any wild oats. Marc and Adi and I all did, and you should have that opportunity too. But I’ll ask that you be safe about it. Regular tests, condoms, dental dams, the whole nine yards. And I’ll be happy to teach you how to use everything.”

Ben flushed and laughed. “Oh, will you, sir? Hands-on instruction?”

Khalil leaned forward and captured his mouth for a long, lubricious kiss. “That’s the best kind,” he murmured.

“In that big bed of yours?”

“Oh, aye. That’s the best place,” Khalil smiled slyly. “Room to maneuver. Lots of pillows.”

“Unless you want to rechristen the kitchen, stop now, please,” Ben said, shifting uncomfortable on his stool.

“Tell me what you think of turning your room into a studio then, and moving your things down with me? Clothes and such. The upstairs would still be your private space for work or entertaining if you want.”

“Which is what’s making you think about a guest house?” Ben asked.

Khalil nodded. “It’s an awkward space up there, but it fits you perfectly. It can be a secondary guest space, like the office. But I think a guest house would be great for people we want to have stay longer, your friends and mine, so they’re not underfoot at night and have some privacy themselves. And it’s one more thing to add to your portfolio. But the object of this is to get you into my bed on a permanent basis, at least until you leave.” Khalil gave him a very convincing and somewhat alarming leer.

Ben was unfazed. “I thought you’d never ask,” he said softly. He was the one leaning forward this time to coax Khalil’s mouth open and nip at his lips.

Khalil’s face was flushed too, when Ben drew back. “I dunno, laddie, the kitchen’s christening might need refreshing,” he said in a growl.

Ben pushed him back gently. “Save it for christening the bed. I expect a thorough lesson.” Khalil let him go with an exaggeratedly mournful sigh and Ben laughed. “So, yeah, I like the idea of a guest house and a dedicated studio. We can leave the bed up there, too, for, you know, naps. And stuff.”

“And stuff,” Khalil chuckled. “You know, we don’t have to talk about all this right now….”

“Nice try. What’s next?”

“Uh, squirrels?” Khalil said hopefully, checking the list.

“No help for them. And I warned you about that. Next?”

“Who knew you were so stubborn, Benjamin Kenner?” Khalil grumbled.

“Actually, I’ve got a request,” Ben said. “Would you teach me self-defense? I didn’t know you had a black belt. Or that Adi and Marc did too. I’d like to not get my ass kicked anymore.”

“You’ll get your ass kicked a lot while you’re learning,” Khalil told him.

Ben shrugged. “That’s different. I just, I don’t want to need a weapon to defend myself. Especially not a gun.”

“So is it just self-defense you want to learn, or a martial art?”

“I don’t know. What’s your advice?”

Khalil got up and went to one of the bookshelves and came back with a paperback with a yellow cover and the title _The Art of Peace_. He handed it to Ben. “This is the martial art that I practice, though I haven’t done much practice for a while. I think you might like this one. Read this and tell me what you think,” Khalil said, getting more coffee and offering Ben more. “And you’ve given me an idea about what to do with the basement. What do you think about making that a workout space? I’d like to get a treadmill or a stationary bike and some weights for the winters up here. There’s no fucking way I’m running on snowy roads at my age, and the gym is an hour away. We can put some mats down for a bit of practice, if you like. And fill in or seal up that tunnel, because it sounds like it has some very unpleasant associations for you.”

“No objection here,” Ben said, “to any of that. Sounds like a great idea. Do you want to carpet the floor too? Just to make it a bit warmer? It’s always been dry, so I don’t think that’ll be an issue. And if I never see that damn tunnel again, it’ll be too soon. Maybe I’ll stop dreaming about it.”

Khalil cupped his cheek. “ I hope so. I admit I’m not fond of bare basements, either. So let’s just finish this one and make it more pleasant to be in,” Khalil said, crossing that off his list, “and brick up that tunnel on both ends. I was going to put pavers in the greenhouse-slash-conservatory anyway. We can lay them right over that trap door and cement them in and brick up the door in the basement and cover it with drywall, and paint it a cheery color.”

Ben nodded, smiling. “Sounds great. What’s left on that list?” he said. “Did we hit everything?”

“You sure you want to, today?”

“It’ll eat at you if we don’t,” Ben teased. “I know how much you love crossing things out. It’s really adorkable.”

Khalil looked down at his list with its neat lines through seven of the nine items and felt himself flush as he smiled. It was embarrassing to be so transparent. It was wonderful to be known in his quirkiness and loved anyway.

“Two more things, then,” he said, trying to look serious and failing. “How open do we want to be about our relationship here? Adi and Marc have figured us out, and our respective shrinks probably have.”

“Garen and Siri too. I don’t think it’s a big secret, Khalil,” Ben said with a smirk. “I understand why Michael and you were discreet about being together, but I think it’s too late for that here. And I’m okay with that. I’m tired of pretending to be something I’m not. I’ve already been gossiped about so much that it’s really not going to make a difference to me. But if it does to you, that’s something else.”

Khalil shook his head. “No, I’ve finally arrived at a point in my life where I don’t have to answer to anyone, or worry about what others might think and how that would affect my job, and you’re the only person I have to protect. The people who matter to me already know I’m queer and don’t give a fuck. As far as I’m concerned, you set the tone.”

“Okay, then. Here’s the tone.” Ben slid off his stool and struck a pose that was all too familiar from Khalil’s clubbing days. He started to laugh delightedly. Then Ben began to sing in a lovely tenor. And dance. To a very familiar tune.

_I’m_

_Coming_

_Out_

_I'm coming out_

_I want the world to know_

_Got to let it show_

_I'm coming out_

_I want the world to know_

_I got to let it show_

_I'm coming out_

_I want the world to know_

_Got to let it show_

Khalil was grinning so hard his face hurt. Ben sailed into his arms and hugged him tightly. “You can thank Siri for that. She played it at the bar as we were cleaning up and we were all dancing to it.” Ben kissed him soundly and said, “But thank you for opening my very dark closet. And loving me.”

“Well here’s some more of that, laddie. Coming right up,” Khalil said, bending down and hoisting Ben over his shoulder. Ben yelped and started to laugh, hanging onto Khalil’s belt as he climbed the stairs, maneuvered them into the bedroom, and dumped Ben across his bed. Their bed. He’d thrown the curtains open when he’d gotten up that morning and the room was full of soft autumn sunlight, falling in a wide bar across the bed and making Ben’s hair a literally breathtaking red gold. Khalil stared, transfixed for a moment, then shook himself. “Tell me you want this,” Khalil said softly.

“Every bit of it,” Ben said, with utter certainty in his voice. “All of it. All of you. Please. Right now.”

Khalil nodded. “All right, then,” he said, kneeling on the bed beside Ben. “The best thing about day sex,” he added, as he reached for Ben’s sweater and undershirt and peeled them off over his head, tossing them on the floor, “is that I get a good look at you.”

“And you, sir. Off with the shirt. Right now,” Ben demanded. “I get to look too.”

Khalil obliged by whipping off his own long-sleeve T and undershirt to add to Ben’s pile, then went to the closet to rummage in it. He came back to the bed carrying two boxes of black nitrile gloves, condoms, dental dams, and a squeeze tube of lube, which he dropped on the bed and then sat down again. Ben goggled a little and propped himself up on his elbows. “You weren’t kidding about the instruction part, were you?”

“Our christening the kitchen wasn’t safe sex, laddie,” Khalil said. “And even though I don’t think you’re much of a risk, I still went and had an HIV test at the VA afterwards and came up clean, so you probably are too. I lost too many friends to AIDS and I’ve been too careful to fuck it up now. I don’t know what you and Garen got up to—”

“Nothing more than what you and I did on the couch,” Ben said faintly, still staring at Khalil’s paraphernalia, “and it was more than two years ago. Neither of us had even fooled around with anyone else.”

Khalil nodded. “Then we’ve probably nothing to worry about. But until you have a test too, and we both come up negative after another one three months down the line, it’s barriers for both of us. Ever used a condom?”

Ben flushed a little. “Are you kidding? It’d be all over town in about five minutes that one of us bought them,” he replied in disgust.

“Aye, I wonder how many kids that’s killed,” Khalil muttered. “On the other hand, that means I get to show you some fun tricks.” Khalil reached over and unfastened Ben’s jeans, one shiny brass button at a time, giving him time to change his mind. “Have I mentioned I like the anticipation of buttons?” he said, popping a third one and not so subtly petting the bulge beneath it.

“Me too….” Ben seemed mesmerized, watching Khalil’s big hands slide inside his now unfastened jeans and underneath the waistband of his shorts and slowly push them down off his hips, which he lifted off the bed to oblige. Hands and cloth glided over his butt, down his thighs, to his knees, over his calves, until jeans and shorts reached his ankles and were dropped to the floor off his feet. Khalil noticed the gooseflesh he’d raised on the lad’s skin with satisfaction.

“Oh, Benjamin Kenner,” he said reverently, smoothing a palm over his chest as though petting a cat. “You are a lovely piece of work.” Regular access to good food had indeed filled him out, and his construction work had tanned and muscled him up more, so he was not just wiry but truly muscular. The tan stopped amusingly at his waist, skipped to his upper thighs and stopped again at what would have been the top of his workboots. Khalil recalled the very pleasant vision of him roofing the garage in a pair of cutoffs and boots and nothing else. And it had not just tanned but freckled him. They were sprinkled across his shoulders and down his chest, which clearly belonged to a man’s body, not a boy’s, and a fit young man at that. A thatch of red hair adorned his chest, too, and trailed down in a thin line to another at his groin, in which rested a generous cock filling and hardening as he watched.

Khalil stroked his palm over a depression in Ben’s ribcage. “What’s this?”

“That’s from the last beating I got from my father. I think he broke a rib and I never got it taken care of.”

Khalil scowled. “Jayzus, lad, you’re lucky that didn’t go through a lung. You should still get that x-rayed. Does it bother you?”

“Not really. It’s just like a stitch in my side now and then.”

Khalil leaned down and laved the spot with his tongue and kissed it, then moved up to the nipple above it and did the same. Ben clutched his hair and arched his back, making little noises of pleasure. Khalil bit down lightly and that seemed to send an electric shock through Ben. He shuddered beneath Khalil and moaned. “Oh, I like that. More, please,” he said a little breathlessly. Khalil was more than happy to oblige. But first he pulled the tie out of his hair and tossed it in with the pile of clothing. “I don’t mind a bit of hair-pulling, lad. Feel free.”

By the time Khalil sat up again, Ben was hard and ready for Khalil’s fun trick. He picked up one of the condom packages, eyed Ben’s erection and nodded to himself. “This should do,” he murmured, then carefully opened the package and unrolled the contents slightly onto the tip of Ben’s cock, leaving the requisite room. Then he closed his mouth around it and began unrolling it with his lips and tongue, slowly, until it was fitted snugly all the way down Ben’s shaft, which bumped the back of his throat. Ben’s fingers clenched in his hair all the while as he made incoherent sounds. Khalil loved this trick; he’d pleasured Michael with it often and it had endeared him to other occasional lovers. He pulled back up just as slowly as he’d gone down, with just a little suction.

Ben’s eyes were glazed when he looked up at him again, and it made Khalil chuckle. “You look debauched, love, and we haven’t even started.”

“You might kill me before you’re through,” Ben warned, seeming not unhappy about that. “Where the fuck did you learn that?”

“From a lovely lad at Cambridge who supplemented his income by ‘tutoring.’ Queer as Oscar Wilde and didn’t care who knew.”

“Not that I’m not interested in your history, and I did ask, but are you taking those jeans off anytime soon? I haven’t actually seen you naked yet.”

Khalil was surprised for moment, but realized it was true. “Well, we’ll have to remedy that. Fair’s fair.” He stood up again and popped his own buttons with tantalizing slowness, watching Ben watching him. He made sure the reveal was equally slow, pushing jeans and shorts down his own hips until his cock sprang free, and then down his legs, and finally kicking them into the pile of clothing. He held his arms out and did a slow 360 turn. Ben’s expression was avid, when he looked back again, though what he had to show could not compete in his mind.

Ben begged to differ. “Fuck, Khalil. You are amazing. ‘Scarred old carcass’ my ass. C’mere. I need to touch you.”

Khalil crawled back onto the bed and lay down beside Ben, propping his head up on one hand and caressing Ben’s hip with the other. Meanwhile, Ben ran his fingers lightly across Khalil’s skin, making him shiver a little. There were places Khalil couldn’t feel them, covered in scar tissue as they were, but everywhere else, Ben’s callused fingers were a pleasant rasp.

“What a story here,” Ben said reverently. “I want to get to know this better—”

“But right now you want something else,” Khalil finished for him, reading the trembling of his hands and his body language. “Tell me what you want, Ben.”

“I don’t even know where to start, Khalil,” he said in frustration. “What do you like?”

“I like a lot of things, but a good hard fuck is always welcome,” Khalil grinned. “And it would be instructional, for you.”

“You mean … in you,” Ben flushed again. It was so sweet and so awkward. Everything was new to him, and for a moment, Khalil missed his very experienced lover. But only a moment. This was a gift, to be this young man’s first serious lover.

“Aye, penetration. It’s been a while, and that’s quite a handful inside that condom, so I’ll have to work my way back up to it.” He doubted that, but it would be fun anyway and also instructional for Ben.

“Okay…. I have, I have no idea what I’m doing, Kal,” Ben said in frustration. “But I’m game.”

Khalil leaned forward and kissed him gently. “That’s all right, lad. Nobody’s born knowing how to do this. It takes practice like everything else. The first thing you do is glove up and get the lube. This bed’s a bit high for the usual shenanigans, and I want to see your face, so throw me one of those pillows. Or both.” Khalil put a pillow under his pelvis and spread his legs while Ben pulled on the smaller gloves Khalil had bought. “Kneel here, between my legs,” Khalil said. “A bit closer.” He pulled his knees up and spread his legs wider as the lad scooted closer. “I’d probably better get a condom on myself. Want to do the honors?”

Ben looked amazed and delighted and a little scared, but it went on fine. “Jesus, Kal, talk about handfuls. That’s intimidating as hell. You wiped out the extra large bin when they were handing parts out.”

Khalil laughed. “Matches the mits, at least,” he said, waggling his fingers. “Now it’s your turn to do a bit of exploring. Touch what you like, lad, inside and out. Nothing’s off limits.”

Ben did. It was fantastic to feel someone’s hands on him again. He only now realized how touch starved he was as Ben stroked his thighs inside and out, over his balls, and worked a hand up and down his cock, squeezing a little. The rasp of calluses there would have been delicious, but he’d have to wait for that. Ben leaned over him and captured his mouth, exploring thoroughly the territory Khalil already welcomed him into. Even with his hands framing Ben’s face, he let the lad control the kiss and move on when he wanted to. He did, eventually, lips and tongue and teeth exploring the long column of Khalil’s throat, the space under his ear that made him shiver, the hollow above his collarbones that he lapped like a cat. He traced those with a finger, noting the divot in one and the thin scar that bisected it.

“A story for later,” Khalil promised. Ben nodded solemnly and went on with his exploration, carding through the much lighter patch of hair on Khalil’s chest and leaning down to lick and bite at Khalil’s nipples. He cupped a big hand around Ben’s head, holding him there and arching up into the sensation, making encouraging sounds, each nip a jolt to his cock. He was panting by the time Ben moved on, trailing his hands down Khalil’s stomach in a touch just a little too light. He twitched away and laughed.

“You’re ticklish!” Ben exclaimed gleefully.

“Oh, Christ and Allah, I was hoping you wouldn’t find out!” Khalil said, laughing and squirming as Ben grinned and ran his fingers lightly over his chest and ribs. He didn’t do it for long, only enough to make Khalil laugh again.

“How do I touch you then, without tickling?” Ben was comically concerned, and it was endearing.

“More pressure. Not so light. Fingernails are good.”

“Like this?” Ben tried again and Khalil growled with pleasure.

“Just like that,” Khalil affirmed. It was so good to be caressed again with by someone who cared for him.

Ben stroked over the join of hip and leg and soon was back where he’d started. Khalil groped for the lube and took Ben’s hand to squeeze some into it, coating his fingers. “How’s your knowledge of anatomy?”

“Theoretical, at best,” Ben said. “Why?”

“You’re going to want to find my prostate. On second thought, this might be easier from behind the first time round.”

“Wait, Khalil, no,” Ben stopped him as he started to turn over. “I want to see your face too. Just tell me what to do.”

“All right, lad. Here, just reach under a bit and slide a finger in there, lad,” Khalil said encouragingly, lifting his hips and adjusting the pillow beneath them. He pulled his knees back again and held himself open while, Ben, with a look of intense concentration, trailed a finger down his perineum and rubbed over the ring of muscles before pushing inside. Khalil shuddered and threw his head back. He wanted more, much more, and was ready for it, but he would take it slow for Ben’s sake.

“That’s it. Work it in and out and until things feel a bit looser. You’ll know when.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t. Crook your finger up a bit and feel—shite! That’s the spot.”

“Here?”

Khalil shuddered and groaned, going shaky all of a sudden. “Aye, lad. Got it in one.”

“Your prostate, right?”

Khalil nodded and shuddered harder as Ben rubbed over it again. “More, lad, another finger. I’ll be going off soon and I want you in me when I do.”

“Oh god, Kal.” It was almost a whine and he could feel the lad trembling as he pushed another finger in and began to finger fuck him with enthusiasm.

“Just a bit … more…,” Khalil panted, pushing back into the presence and pressure of Ben’s fingers. He shuddered again and cried out, “Now, Ben, please. Slick yourself up.”

There was some fumbling, of course there was, and nervous laughter on Ben’s part, and shared amusement on Khalil’s, and then Ben’s generous cock was pushing into him, filling him and Ben leaned over him, propping himself up while Khalil let his legs down onto Ben’s shoulders and the lad bent him in half, driving into him eagerly as Khalil’s fist closed on the coverlet while he worked himself with the other, and he threw his head back, but no, he wanted to see Ben’s face—“look at me, please,”—and Ben’s head came up, their gazes locking as Ben drove into him, and drove into him, and hit his prostate again and again—

—until Khalil’s head and spine lit up like fireworks and his cock jumped in his hand, emptying into the condom while Ben cried out and shuddered above him, mouth open and eyes closed in the throes of orgasm, lost in the sensation of Khalil tightening around him. They thrashed together for a moment, muscles locked, and then, panting, Ben disentangled them, minding the condom as he softened and slipped out, and collapsed into Khalil’s arms, which closed around him. After a moment, Khalil urged him up enough to peel off his own condom and tie it off, then ungloved while Ben did the same.

“Holy fuck,” Ben gasped, when he was back in Khalil’s arms. Khalil kissed the top of his sweaty head and slid his fingers up and down Ben’s spine. In the light still filling the room, his hair had darkened with sweat to auburn. Ben was a warm blanket on top of him, but when the lad shivered as the sweat dried, Khalil reached over and pulled the blanket from the foot of the bed to cover them both, and shortly, they were both asleep.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We got a dog. I guess that means we’re a couple.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: animal cruelty with happy ending. Mostly.

Khalil woke both confused and drunkenly euphoric. Or confused by being drunkenly euphoric, until Ben shifted back against him with a little snort. They were lying sideways in the middle of the bed, on a pillow that smelled of sex, half covered in sunlight and blanket. He’d turned on his side at some point, holding Ben against him so they were spooned together. Gloriously, nakedly, spooned together. And Ben had just fucked him. Khalil gave a happy sigh and kissed the back of Ben’s neck.

Ben yawned and rolled over, then kissed the tip of Khalil’s nose and smiled at him with the same stupidly euphoric look he probably had on his own face. They both laughed.

“Oh my God, Khalil,” Ben said. “I can’t believe I just did that.”

“What, you can’t believe you fucked your boyfriend?” Khalil teased. “I did ask you to.”

“I can’t believe that either!” He kissed Khalil hard and rolled him over on his back again, straddling him. “That was amazing! You’re amazing! Holy shit!”

Khalil laughed again. It was so wonderful to see him like this, remembering the bedraggled, frightened, skinny lad who’d first appeared outside his windshield. “It was amazing from this end, too, love,” he said. “I’m looking forward to a great deal more of it with you. You’ll just have to give me a chance to rest up in between. I need a bit more recovery time than you.”

“That’s fine. That means I have time to get a good look at you. Now,” he said, running his finger over the divot in Khalil’s collarbone again, “what’s this from? You did say it’s a story.” Ben went solemn then. “I imagine all of these are a story.”

“Aye, they are, lad, but I lived, so they all have happy endings. It’s like pilots say: any landing you can walk away from is a good one.”

“But this is, is this a, a _stab wound?”_

Khalil nodded. “It is. But it was a classified mission, so I can’t tell you the whole story. Only that the other guy looked worse when we got done with him. Most of the rest of these are from my time with the Taliban, when they found out I was an American agent. Minus one bullet wound.”

“Shit, Khalil,” Ben said quietly. “No wonder you have nightmares. These look like cigarette burns?” Khalil nodded. Ben traced his fingers over Khalil’s skin with enough pressure not to tickle. “There’s a lot of burns here. Not from cigarettes. And other things.” Dismayed, Ben started to kiss each one, lavishing the evidence of his sacrifices with attention, until Khalil started to feel somehow that he was being anointed for his sufferings, that this was a balm he was being given: Ben’s lips on his scars. Michael had been unfazed by them, having enough of his own; to Ben they seemed something extraordinary, somehow worthy of recognition and attention. He found his eyes filling with tears and threw an arm over his face until Ben was done cataloging. Ben pulled his arm away and kissed his eyelids then, wiping the tears away with his thumbs, hands framing Khalil’s face.

“When I said it was the whole package with you, Khalil, this is what I meant,” Ben said. “It’s all of you. Your kindness, your even temper, your broad shoulders, that ass, the long legs, the way you carry yourself, the fact that what you’ve done and endured hasn’t made you cruel or hateful. I’ve never met a man like you. Someone as masculine as you are who’s not afraid of tears, or his own emotions, as badass and yet humane as you are at the same time. How matter of fact you are about being queer. I want to be you, when I grow up,” he finished, only half-joking, Khalil thought.

He also thought only a young man like Ben, one still figuring out his own way to be in the world, would ever see him this way, instead of old and battle scarred and weary of it as he felt most days. His time with the Taliban after they’d found him out had nearly unmade him, and Michael’s death had finally undone him enough to send him fleeing everything he’d known. But that’s not what Ben saw in him. Khalil would have to try to live up to that. And maybe help heal himself in the process.

He brushed his fingers through Ben’s hair. “I want you to grow up to be yourself, love. You’ve already done a damn good job of that considering what’s been thrown at you. College will push you well down your own path, where you belong. In the meanwhile, I’m lucky to be loved by you.”

“And respected.”

“That too. That’s icing on the cake.”

“You’re a delicious cake,” Ben replied, smirking. “Can I have some more, please?”

They spent the rest of the afternoon exploring each other and napping in between as the light faded from the room. They’d skipped lunch and finally got up to shower and have dinner, then Khalil helped Ben move his clothing downstairs after clearing out space for him in the closet and bureau. The lad still didn’t have much in the way of possessions, but didn’t seem bothered by that, either. They went to sleep in each other’s arms that night.

Ben came down to the kitchen the next morning and stopped dead in the middle of a yawn and scruff scratch to stare at Khalil in surprise.

“Is that a dog?” he said, not coming any closer. The creature in question was sitting at Khalil’s feet at the counter in a trail of filth and looked up in curiosity. It was hard to tell what, exactly, it was, or what color because it was covered with dirt and mud and burrs and leaves and smelled almost as bad as Ben had the first time Khalil had seen him. Two licked-clean bowls sat near it.

Khalil looked down as though just noticing it. “I think so. He was waiting outside when I came back from my run this morning. He’s very friendly. Trotted right into the house when I opened the door. I’d have left him on the porch until he was cleaned up, but he whined to come in. Are you afraid of dogs?”

“No,” Ben shook his head, “not generally. It looks like a pit bull though.”

“Yes, I think so, though it’s hard to tell. I thought I’d take him to the vet and get him cleaned up and see if he’s chipped, then put some signs up in case he’s somebody’s lost pet.”

Ben walked forward slowly, holding out the palm of his hand. The dog crept over to him, belly on the ground, tail wanting to wag, and sniffed and licked his hand tentatively. Ben sat on the floor, and the dog whined and clambered into his lap, licking his face, tail erupting into frantic action. “Oh, buddy, you are fil–thy. Did you roll in something dead, too? Phew!” Ben said, laughing and trying to scratch the dog’s ears.

“I think he likes you, Ben,” Khalil said, grinning. “But then, so do I.”

“Yes, you have a thing for stinky strays. But I don’t think he’s anybody’s pet.”

“Why not?”

“Have a look,” Ben said with a scowl. “You can just see it under the dirt: the chewed up ears, the bite marks on the haunches and legs. See this one?” He held the dog’s head gently and touched a just-healing bitemark on the jowl. The dog whimpered and pulled away. “I think somebody was trying to teach him to fight. But he’s clearly a lover, not a fighter, aren’t you, buddy?”

Khalil’s scowl matched Ben’s. “You want to help me take him in to the vet’s?”

“I’ll get dressed,” Ben said. “We’ll take my truck. It’s already covered in construction dirt, though we’ll have to drive with the windows down.”

Underneath the mud and burrs and stink was a young, scrawny, brown and white pit bull with too many scars for such a young dog. For any dog, the vet said, scowling as hard as Ben and Khalil had.

“He’s amazingly sweet-tempered for having been treated like this. And pretty healthy except for being underfed. I don’t think he’s been an escapee for more than a day or two. No chip,” the vet said, putting the scanner away. “And, frankly, if the owner came in right now and claimed him I wouldn’t give him back. Nobody should treat an animal like this. It’s all mostly healed now, but I’m going to give you some antibiotics for him, or for you to pass on to the the shelter folks for him, if you’re taking him there.”

Ben and Khalil looked at each other. “He’s coming home with us,” Khalil said.

“Got a name yet? I’ve given him his rabies shot so we can get a license ready for him.”

“Hey, Buddy,” Ben said to the dog, experimentally. The dog perked up his ears and woofed. The vet laughed.

“Buddy it is, then. Cahill or Kenner?” she said. “I’ll chip him for you, too.”

“Both,” Ben answered. “He belongs to both of us.”

The stop at the pet store on the way home netted Buddy a collar, harness, and leash; a 25 pound bag of kibble and some high protein wet food; some rawhide chews; an indoor bed and crate; a coat and pavement booties for running with Khalil in the colder weather; and some choice toys. He stepped into the harness like he knew exactly what it was and sat patiently while Khalil snapped the leash on it, then buckled on the collar with a new tag bearing Buddy’s name and their phone numbers on it.

On the way home, Ben glanced over at Khalil, who was snuggling with and having his face licked by a very happy pit bull. “We got a dog. I guess that means we’re a couple,” he said with a grin.

Khalil laughed. “That’s a very low bar. I’ll take it.”

Ben took out the last of the table and shelving in the greenhouse before the slate pavers Khalil had ordered came in. They cemented them in place together, covering over the trap door to the tunnel. A few days later, the local florist pulled up in her delivery van and honked. Khalil went out to help her and her brother unload, while Ben kept Buddy company as he barked excitedly at the _new people!_ and _green things!_ and _car!_ and ran up and down the porch. The florist gave Khalil a full set of instructions for his new collection of flowers and plants and said she’d be back to check on them the following week. Before they left, she came up to the porch to give Buddy a treat and tell him what a good boy he was.

“What a sweet dog,” she said as Buddy rolled over at her feet to have his belly rubbed. “Is he a rescue?”

“He found us,” Ben said. “I think he ran away from some place where they were trying to teach him to fight, because he’s a bit chewed up. But he’s ours, now.”

She rubbed Buddy’s belly as he wriggled on the floor. “He looks like a very happy doggie now, Obi—wait, you’re going by Ben now, right? Sorry.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I know it’ll take a while to get used to. Don’t worry about it.”

“I hear you’ve been doing a lot of the renovation work out here. It’s looking great. Not as gloomy and weird as it was when your dad owned it. No offense.”

Ben laughed. “None taken. It _was_ gloomy and weird. Did you pick out the plants or did Kal?”

“I made recommendations,” she said. “He made some pretty expensive choices. He’s sure spent a pile on this place, from the looks of it.”

“That he has,” Ben affirmed. “All top-notch materials.”

“Okay,” she said, “I’m just going to ask: you’re still living here, right?”

“Yep,” Ben said, taking a leaf from Khalil’s technique of _don’t lie but tell a bare minimum of truth_.

“Why?” she said curiously.

“Because it’s my home,” he replied.

That was all she could get out of him without being rude, so she and her brother left with a wave and promise to be back next week. Ben opened the porch door to let Buddy out, and walked to the greenhouse, Buddy racing around the yard at top speed before joining Ben when he was whistled for. Khalil was moving pots around and Buddy helped by sniffing everything and sticking his nose in the larger pots to see if there was any buried treasure he should dig up. “Well, that should fuel the rumor mill,” Ben said.

“Oh?” Khalil asked, stepping back to look at the current arrangement and frowning at it.

“She wanted to know if I was still living here and why, and I said yes, because it’s my home.”

Khalil gave him that lopsided smile. “It is your home. Speaking of which,” Khalil said slowly, “that’s the last item on the list. We got a bit distracted from that.”

“We did,” Ben grinned. “What is it? I’ve forgotten.”

Khalil took a deep breath. “I’d like to put your name on the deed to the house. So it belongs to both of us. Neither of us could sell it out from under the other, and you would already own it when I shuffle off my mortal coil. I want you to always have a home. And if you decide to leave, I could buy you out and you’d have a stake for a new home. You’d have equity to borrow against for a business, too.”

Ben leaned heavily back against the glass, looking stunned. “I—Khalil, that’s—wow. That’s huge. I—don’t you think I’m a bit young to own half a home?”

Kahlil shook his head. “No, I don’t. You’re a responsible person. And you’d be assuaging my conscience. I had no idea when I bought this place that I was helping disinherit a young man who didn’t deserve it. I’ve never felt right about it, not since you took that potshot at me.”

Ben laughed wryly. “It’s hardly your fault, Khalil. How would you have known?”

“I’d still love to know how the inspector ‘missed’ you living on the property,” he pointed out. “But I don’t like being made an agent of injustice, even in ignorance,” Khalil said, shaking his head. “It’s happened too often in my life. This, though, I can fix, if you’ll let me.”

“I don’t know, Khalil,” Ben said. “It’s not a gift I could ever reciprocate in any way.”

 _Oh laddie, if you knew what you’re already giving back to me,_ Khalil thought. “Look, it’s not like this will hurt me financially, or any other way. And it doesn’t dump any financial obligation on you. I’ve already spent the money, love, in cash. There’s no mortgage, nothing’s owed on it. The renovations are paid for as we go. I’ll pay the taxes until you get on your feet and then we can split them, if you like. You’ve been contributing to what little there is in utilities since this place is half off the grid. You have a lot of sunk costs in it already, I figure, between sweat equity and the emotional shite of growing up in it. It would have been yours by inheritance from your father, if he hadn’t been such a fuckhead to you,” Khalil said.

Ben still looked dubious, and a little panicked. Time to back off.

“Just think about it,” Khalil said. “It doesn’t have to be done now. We can do it after you come back from college. If you decide you want to stay here. How’s that?”

Ben let out a breath, already looking less trapped. “I like that better. I’m not sure I’m ready for that responsibility. Too much up in the air right now.”

Khalil snorted. “I can think of a number of terrible double entendres for that.”

“Please demonstrate them later,” Ben said with a smirk. “But help me move this shelving in here again, right now. You need help with this.”

Khalil knew he was right, and surrendered gracefully. With Ben’s help the greenhouse was well on its way to becoming a conservatory by the end of the day.

“You really do have an eye for this,” Khalil told him, looking approvingly at the arrangement of plants and flowers Ben had put together in half the time it had taken Khalil to do it badly.

“Mrs. Newsome and _Architectural Digest_ for the win!” Ben laughed. “I really like where this is going though. What other furniture are you thinking of putting in here? I think a small area rug, there, at least.”

Khalil nodded. “I’ve got one too, in the basement. That one we couldn’t find a good spot for.”

“Right, the round one. That’ll be perfect.”

“I was thinking of meditation cushions out here, not furniture,” Khalil said. “A little self-contained fountain tucked in among the plants. Maybe a low table. Another couple of strings of café lights like we have on the porch. Too cold in the winter, you think?”

Ben looked thoughtful. “It was always pretty warm out here and should be warmer with the number of plants you’ve got now.” Ben shrugged. “Try it. You can always add a couple of club chairs later if sitting on the floor is too cold. Or a patio heater. I didn’t know you were a meditator.”

“I haven’t been, not in a long while. Carlos suggested I go back to it though, and I think he’s right. It’s a great way to start the day and wind down at night. And who knows? I might actually find enlightenment someday.”

“I would fall right back to sleep if I tried to do that right after I got up,” Ben shook his head. “You morning people. Tell me you at least have coffee first.”

“Christ and Allah, yes. It doesn’t matter what time of day you do it. That’s just how the temples run.”

Ben gave him a suspicious look. “Is there a story there? Old hippie days in an ashram?”

Khalil returned the stink eye. “I was never an old hippie. I was briefly a young one. But not in an ashram. For a while, I was spending a good chunk of my military leaves in a Zen temple near Kyoto, when Marc and I weren’t getting thrown out of bars.”

“You’re a Buddhist?” Ben said, surprised.

“More of a fellow-traveler. Sort of comes with the aikido, if you want it to. I just needed time in a place that was anything but violent, and managed to absorb some of the teachings while sitting on my arse for hours a day. That’s probably how I survived in the Army as long as I did.”

Ben looked thoughtful, and Khalil dropped the subject. If he was still interested, he knew how to ask. Not so secretly, Khalil thought a regular meditation practice would be good for both of them, not just himself.

“Listen,” Ben said, shaking himself out of his reverie, “I was thinking of putting the guest house just beyond here and set farther back, with a breezeway connecting it, the conservatory, and the main house, with storm windows for the winter and a couple of heaters? We can keep the front door of the greenhouse and add one at the back for access from the breezeway. And we can put up storm windows around the porch too, if you want, with some more heaters. Then you won’t have to bundle up to come out to meditate in the winter, and you might be able to have dinner out there, too. We’re probably not going to get to that until next spring though. Ground’s getting pretty hard for pouring concrete.”

Khalil nodded, pleased. “That sounds perfect. Looking forward to seeing the plans.”

Ben was unloading the bricks for sealing up the tunnel from the bed of his truck when an unfamiliar truck pulled down the drive. Buddy, who’d been cavorting around the yard and chasing off the squirrels to the birds’ delight, watched with curiosity until the door opened and a man stepped out. Then he trotted to Ben’s side and stood growling with his teeth bared.

“Jeff,” Ben said without any warmth in his voice.

“Obi,” the man said. “That’s my dog you’ve got there. Thanks for taking care of him.”

“It’s Ben, please,” he said. “And he’s our dog now. Chipped and tagged.”

Jeff Robinson’s face went red, the way Ben remembered it doing when he and his father had talked about fucking libtards taking their guns. “Axel!” he snapped at the dog. “Get over here. Right now.”

Buddy stayed firmly where he was, pressed against Ben’s knee, still growling. Ben put a hand on the dog’s head and scratched his ears. Buddy stopped growling long enough to lick Ben’s hand then went right back to it.

“I don’t think he likes you anymore, Jeff. Can’t see why he should when you sicced your other dogs on him to tear him up. Not to mention starving him. But if you want, we can call the sheriff and let him sort this out. And the vet who treated him when we brought him in. They might want a look around your kennels though, just to make sure your other dogs are okay.”

Robinson clenched his hands at his side and started forward until Buddy lunged at him, barking and growling in a way Ben hadn’t heard him do before. It was pretty clear he hated this man but was also afraid of him.

“I don’t think he’ll go with you, Jeff,” Ben said, taking Buddy’s collar, but not tugging him back, just holding him. “I think you’d better leave.”

“Dog cost me a lot of money,” Robinson snarled.

“Dog cost us a lot of money to fix what you’d done to him, too. We should send you the bill. I’d fucking drop this now, if I were you. Get in your truck and don’t come back. Buddy’s ours, now.”

“Your old man was right about you, you fucking faggot!” Robinson shouted, fists still clenched, spittle flying.

“You and my old man can kiss my queer, hairy ass, Jeff,” Ben said calmly. “Get the fuck off our property before I get my rifle. You know I’m a better shot than you.”

Furious but clearly not liking the options, Robinson got back in his truck and started the engine again. For a minute, it looked like the Dodge might live up to its name and become a battering ram aimed at Ben’s truck, but the load of bricks in the bed seemed to deter him. He threw the Dodge into reverse and floored it back up the drive, knocking over as many of the reflectors as he could manage to hit on the way out.

“Fucking asshole,” Ben muttered and went to pick them up.

He’d replanted the third one before his hands started to shake and he jumped when Khalil came up behind him. “Shit,” he said, and leaned over, bracing himself on his knees. Buddy came up and licked his face. Ben knelt down and put his arms around the dog.

Khalil put a hand on his back. “You okay?”

Ben nodded. “I just need a minute.”

“Deep breaths,” Khalil advised, and Ben nodded again. After a couple of minutes, he straightened up and held his hands out. They still trembled a little, but were better than they had been. He went back to straightening up reflectors. Khalil joined him. Buddy stuck close to Ben, watching him closely.

“That was nicely handled,” Khalil said after a few minutes.

“Where were you?” Just curiosity, not accusation.

“Watching from the front door, behind the screen. I don’t think he could see me.”

“He’ll be back,” Ben said, tucking a bent reflector under his arm. “With friends. Because if he’s too chickenshit to tackle me and the dog by himself, he’ll get reinforcements. He’s been embarrassed by us twice now.”

“I should send him a copy of his running tab with us: the tank’s paint job, Buddy’s vet bill, the reflectors he’s broken. We should have taken pictures of these.”

“Can’t get blood out of a stone, Kal,” Ben said pragmatically. “That truck’s probably the most valuable thing he owns. That and the dogs. I’m thinking I should give Marc an anonymous tip about a dog fighting ring at his house, though.”

“That might not be a bad idea, for the dogs’ sake. Now that we know where Buddy came from.”

Ben nodded, tucking another broken reflector under his arm. “I think I am going to do that, in fact,” Ben said. “I owe it to the dogs.”

“He’ll know it was you,” Khalil reminded him.

Ben looked up at him, jaw set. “I don’t give a flying fuck.”

Khalil nodded and squeezed his shoulder. “So what else do you think he’ll do?” he asked, already thinking about this not as an offensive campaign but as a defensive one. “How do we respond to what’s coming?”

“Got any leftover ordnance? I’d like to put a grenade up his tailpipe,” Ben muttered. “But that’s not very smart, obviously. So, I think the first thing I’m going to do is clean and load my rifle and put a gun rack in the pickup’s cab.” He turned to Khalil. “Have you got a gun?”

Khalil’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “I do, but not a rifle. A Ruger 1911 .45. And yes, my carry permit is current and I have ammo. You think it will come to that?”

“Probably not. They prefer targets that don’t shoot back. Like deer and rabbits. They’ll try some stupid shit like they tried with you at the bar. But I don’t want Jeff to think I’m either afraid of him or an easy mark. He’s not used to that kind of lip from me, so he didn’t really know how to handle it. He and his buddies will want to teach me a lesson. Maybe you too. We’re a couple of chickenshit faggots to them.”

Khalil looked thoughtful. “Is there a shooting range around here? Or do they just practice with tin cans in the back yard?”

“Hey, don’t knock those tin cans,” Ben said, grinning briefly. “That’s how I learned. But yeah, there’s a range they all go to. You planning a demo?”

“Well, it’s been a while since I fired anything, so it probably wouldn’t hurt to have a little practice again.”

“That’s not going to, um, trigger your PTSD, is it?”

Khalil shook his head. “No, lad,” he said, “But thanks for worrying about me. Not at a range with earplugs and muffs. Want to come?”

“Naw, I’ll just shoot a coupla tin cans in the back yard, Paw,” Ben said in an exaggerated accent that made Khalil laugh. “I’ll give you a heads-up first, though. Jeff’s seen me shoot before. And I _am_ a better shot than he is.”

“So for now, we’re waging a psychological campaign,” Khalil said, taking the broken reflectors from Ben as they reached the end of the driveway, where Robinson had laid a big patch of rubber backing out and turning. Khalil stared at it for a moment, his mind elsewhere. “I think … I might get the tank detailed, instead of repainted. And pick up some stickers for the back window.” Ben looked puzzled. “Just—reminders. Of who he’s dealing with. Wouldn’t hurt to have them on the tank when I go talk to the VFW folks either. This might be a good time to start your self-defense lessons too.”

“I was just going to say that,” Ben agreed. “How many did that fucker break?”

Khalil counted under his breath. “Thirteen. An auspicious and unlucky number for him.”

Ben did call Marc about the dogs at Robinson’s, but nothing came of it. They were, of course, gone by the time Marc got out there, probably moved to a hunting camp, or someone else’s house, which was frustrating. Marc promised to keep an eye on Robinson though.

When Khalil returned from the VA that week, he had a handful of decals on the back window of the tank. In the center was one in green block lettering that said “Special Forces” framing the insignia and the signature green beret over a dagger, and above that, a smaller one that said “U.S. Army.” To the left of those was the recognizable “POW/MIA” graphic in black and white and below that the rainbow flag. On the right, standing alone, was a stars and stripes.

He was gone most of the next day and came home with barbed wire painted over the key scratch on the driver’s side, some of the barbs reddened, but nothing so lurid as drops of blood. On the way in, he noticed Ben had put a stars and stripes sticker on the mailbox door, and an upside-down pink triangle on either side.

Khalil went to the range that weekend with several boxes of ammo for the 1911, intending to stay until he’d gotten back to his old skill level. He was the only one with a handgun; the rest were hunters with rifles getting up to speed for the upcoming deer season. There were a couple of Remingtons and Weatherbys, a Ruger American like Ben’s but with a scope, and at least one of the militia members was there with his civilian-grade “assault” rifle. It took less time than he thought it would to get back into the rhythm that was almost like meditation, with most of his rounds hitting near the center of the target, given that he hadn’t been on a range in more than two years. As a bonus, he had a good conversation with the owner, another Afghanistan vet, and bought a membership to the range.

Ben had been up to the same thing while he was gone, with a couple of hay bales and paper targets in the back yard. One of the Nikkaris had come over to keep him company with his own rifle, when he heard the noise, and was still sitting in the kitchen drinking coffee when Khalil came home. He was sandy haired and about Ben’s age, though a little taller, and stood up when Khalil came in, holding out a hand.

“Mr. Cahill, sir. Kit Nikkari, from next door. Ben and me have been shooting up your back yard and drinking your coffee.”

The lad had a firm grip and looked him in the eye. Khalil returned it with a nod. “A pleasure. It’s just Kal, though. You’re welcome to the coffee anytime. Shooting up the back yard with due warning though, please.”

“That’s what Ben said. I’m real sorry our fireworks gave you agita, sir. Kal. That won’t happen again. We can take them down to the river. Or the park with everybody else.”

“I appreciate that, Kit. I imagine I’m not the only vet around here with that reaction. Not all of us like to talk about it.”

“Good point,” the lad acknowledged. “I’ll mention that to Dad. He’s town supervisor.”

Kit showed himself out shortly after, rifle over his shoulder, promising to come back over for coffee or a beer again.

“Nice guy,” Khalil said.

“Yeah, the Nikkari’s are good people,” Ben agreed. “I used to hunt with them. It’s good to see Kit again. I hadn’t thought to go over and just say hi. Still in that isolationist mindset, I guess.”

“Then I’m glad he came over to see you. Hard to break habits you’ve grown up with.”

“I might need to try harder, too,” Ben said, looking a little disturbed.

Khalil reached over and smoothed the frown line between his brows. “Just don’t be hard on yourself at the same time. Now show me how you did this afternoon. I’ll show you mine if you’ll show me yours,” he said, waggling his eyebrows.

Ben’s results were damned good for the lack of a scope, astonishing when Ben told him the range he’d been shooting at. “You could have been a sniper, boyo,” Khalil told him.

Ben made a face. “It’s not something I actually like doing. But we had to eat. That’s why I liked hunting with Kit’s family. The Second Amendment isn’t part of holy scripture to them. These guys who worship their guns like they’re something sacred—I don’t get that. It’s got one purpose: to kill animals or people. Target practice is all leading up to that. It’s like belonging to a death cult.”

“Aye, it’s a tool,” Khalil agreed, “and a terrible one. But sometimes a necessary one, too. But to make a fetish out of it, you’re right, lad. It’s like a death cult. I met people like that in the regular army who wanted to be Special Forces, but they’re too damned trigger happy. That “kill ‘em all and let God sort ‘em out” attitude. That kind of disregard for human life is sickening in anybody.” Khalil shook his head. “But anyway, there’s Phase 1 launched. I’m not sure how much direct effect it will have, but it might gain us some allies.”

“What’s Phase 2?”

Khalil put on an evil grin and rubbed his hands together. “Phase 2 is kicking the shite out of the dojo’s newbie.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we meet Ben's father under trying circumstances, and Khalil teaches many people a lesson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If this chapter is at all accurate in its descriptions of Aikido and how it can work in a street fight, that's thanks to @Ell(Swordwife), who suggested far more vivid descriptions of the action, ironed out my raggedy-assed blocking, made me keep my eye on the bat, and provided the kind of details about teaching that make this a better story. I stole shamelessly from her suggestions and she deserves all kudos for an excellent beta. Any mistakes are strictly mine. 
> 
> There's a link in here to the horrifying rabbit hole that is Sovereign Citizens. They are, unfortunately, a real thing and a threat to democracy and law enforcement. And I am a shamelessly political storyteller, if you haven't guessed that already.

Ben and Kal bricked the wall pierced by the tunnel entrance, after Ben had replaced the door with cut-to-size plywood nailed into the frame. Once it was done, they decided to leave it unpainted and the rafters uncovered and unpainted to make it feel a bit more industrial, but drywalled and painted the other walls a soft yellow. Ben put translucent film over the small windows for the sake of privacy, and after some discussion, installed padded wood flooring.

The room was bisected by the stairs, behind which the freezer resided, so one side became the weight and machine room and the other what Ben dubbed the ass-kicking space: empty but for thick mats on the floor. Khalil added a heavy bag hung from a rafter, a stationary bike, and a weight bench and weights to the other side.

Khalil had already dropped in at the dojo to introduce himself to the other _sensei_ , and spar with Marc and Adi, changing into his _gi_ in a locker room which clearly needed some paint. He thought some new mats might not be amiss either and decided to talk to the other _sensei_ about a donation. They could call on their students to help paint the locker rooms; the care of their school was part of their duty.

Marc took particular glee in using Khalil to _uke_ for him. They were well-matched in size, though Marc was a little burlier, and more in practice, Khalil discovered, going home the first night more bruised than he thought he should be. Ben found him in the basement several mornings in a row reminding himself how to fall and roll and got roped into the action too, getting some advanced lessons before the dojo class started.

Khalil was a little surprised to find Ben took to it like a duck to water. He was already muscular and limber from his construction work and brought an intense concentration to the lessons that many students lacked. But he performed each of the basic moves Khalil taught him with an unexpected grace, and learned them quickly.

“You’re a natural at this,” he said after Ben executed a perfect _shihonage_ after only a few practice runs.

“Don’t know why I should be,” Ben seemed puzzled, and both pleased and a little shy about it.

“You know,” Khalil said thoughtfully, “I’ve watched you working, and it might be because you’re always aware of where your appendages are in space and of your balance. You have to be with power tools, moving lumber and joists, walking on a roof, going up and down a ladder holding things. You don’t get to be the marksman you are without being intensely _in_ your body. So this is just another way of moving to you, not something totally foreign. Your acquisition of muscle memory is very fast too.”

For the inauguration of the Aikido class, Khalil wore his dark blue _hakama_ to welcome his new students. He had six to start, which was a good number, and many spectators, including Adi and Marc. He was pleased to see one of the younger militia members in the class—a pale and skinny lad named Brett—and another in the audience. And, of course, Ben, looking shiny and serious in his new but slightly more broken-in _gi_. He was pleased also to see Siri and Garen and two Nikkari’s, Kit and his twin brother Quinlan. Khalil breathed a silent prayer of thanks to whomever that they were not identical either. Quin’s hair was dark and curly and he’d started to twist it into dreads, much to the dismay of his family, in honor of his hero, Bob Marley, and he was already sporting tattoos. More laid back and less Midwestern polite than Kit, Quin looked openly skeptical but alert, as though Kit had roped him into this under false pretenses and he was going to make the best of it anyway. Brett seemed shy and kept glancing over at the other militia member, who Khalil thought might be his older brother; the man gave Khalil a friendly wave, clearly remembering the beer he’d been bought. Both Siri and Garen seemed excited to be there, and Ben happy to see them and the Nikkari’s.

Khalil introduced himself and told them how long he’d been practicing. He opened with the required lecture about dojo etiquette and bowing, spoke about Aikido’s founder, what Aikido was about and how it differed from other martial arts, what was expected of every martial arts student, and his, especially. “Respect your teachers, your fellow students, and yourselves, not necessarily in that order. Any questions? No? Then we’ll get to it.” Khalil bowed to the _shomen_ holding the portraits of various founders, mirrored by his students. He then bowed to them and said _onagaeshi masu_ , and they echoed and mirrored him, six young faces looking expectant. He really did love this, the passing on of knowledge to the curious and willing.

They warmed up and stretched first, Khalil acknowledging that some of it looked strange because it wasn’t how they were used to moving. Then he had Marc come up and help him demonstrate how to fall, slapping the mat, and roll. “Because learning how to fall right and roll with your partner’s moves keeps you from getting hurt. A good forward roll will make space to give you fighting room again, and in close-in techniques, a good hard breakfall—done right—puts you in the exact position to take out your partner’s legs with kick or sweep from the ground. These two skills are your foundations. Remember, this is about harmony with your partner and your surroundings.” He ran the students through those drills for the rest of the time period. And that was their first class.

Ben’s lessons continued on the side, and they were nothing like what he was learning in class.

“This is what a sensei I know calls ‘Junkyard Aikido,’” Khalil said the morning following their first class at the dojo. They were downstairs in the ass-kicking room, both in their _gis_ , Khalil without his _hakama_. “It’s for street fighting, or ending a street fight as quickly as possible—not for the dojo or physical training or whatever other reasons people learn Aikido. It’s got its own elegance, but it’s not quite so much about flow or harmony. It’s first and foremost about stopping.” Khalil smacked his palms together. “ _Bang._ There’s more emphasis on strikes and arm and wrist locks and their disabling follow-throughs. It’s meant to get your opponent down and keep them from getting back up, by incapacitating them. Especially useful when there’s more than one, and they have weapons, or you’re not very experienced, or all of the above or some combination thereof. Adi will probably be teaching some of these to her women’s self-defense class. It’s not exactly dirty fighting, but it’s not beautiful and dance-like the way Aikido can be.”

“If it keeps Jeff Robinson off my back, I’m all for dirty,” Ben said.

“Do _not_ show this to the other students,” Khalil warned. “They’re not ready for any of this yet.”

“What makes me ready for it?” Ben asked, curious.

“Necessity,” Khalil answered grimly. “I don’t think Jeff and his posse are going to put off a confrontation much longer. Have you noticed the militia boys drifting in and out of the dojo when I’m teaching?”

“And following me around town. You too?”

Khalil nodded. “Jeff waved his keys at me the other day.”

“What a jackass. What’d you do?”

“Just smiled and waved. He can’t hurt me and he knows it. And he knows I know it.”

“This is so stupid,” Ben said, shaking his head. “It’s like the fucking OK Corral or something.”

“It’s a pissing contest,” Khalil agreed. “Like so many stupid little wars.”

“Does Marc know what’s going on?”

Khalil nodded again. “He’s had a couple of chats with Jeff since you sent him out there about the dogs. He suspects it’s Robinson who keeps shooting up our mailbox. But Marc’s our friend, so that disqualifies him as an authority figure, even if Jeff wasn’t one of those [Sovereign Citizens](https://www.splcenter.org/fighting-hate/extremist-files/ideology/sovereign-citizens-movement).”

“He’s the one with the mailbox vendetta?” Ben laughed. “That’s about his speed, yeah. Like running our reflectors over. I wonder if he’s the reason I had a flat the other day.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Khalil said, rolling his eyes. “Okay, down to work. Throw a punch, quarter speed, and watch what I do.”

Ben threw his punch. Khalil turned slightly out of the way and blocked Ben’s blow with both hands, his outside hand coming down on Ben’s forearm, holding on and pushing it down and away, and his inside arm coming over with an elbow to Ben’s jaw, catching him underneath and pushing his head back. It was easy to see that if the blow didn’t knock you out, it would at the very least knock you over and stun you for a while.

“Shit, that would be like being hit with a freight train from you,” Ben said. “I’m not sure I can make that work with someone your height, though.”

“You’ll want to use that outside hand to pull me down and off balance as much as you can. I’m already going to be moving down and toward you with the follow-through of that punch that didn’t connect. Use my momentum and the direction of my movement. That’s where the flow and harmony is in this. The junkyard is your elbow in my face or under my chin.”

After an hour’s practice, they were both drenched and Ben felt fairly confident with the move. The next day, he learned a new one and practiced the one from the previous day. By the end of the week, he had a solid repertoire of strikes and blocks and arm and wrist locks that Khalil and he practiced two hours a day.

“I’m dreaming about this at night,” he said at breakfast, seven days later, after another two-hour practice and the day’s first coffee. “I keep seeing the moves in my head when I go to sleep.”

“Well that would explain the bruises I’m waking up with,” Khalil said thoughtfully.

Ben swung out at him, thought better of it and pulled the punch to Khalil’s arm.

“Wise move,” Khalil said approvingly.

“I have not had enough coffee for this,” Ben said in a weary tone. Khalil ruffled his hair with a sad smile and refilled his cup.

The shenanigans escalated, as Khalil had thought they would, but it was mostly stupid stuff, as Ben classified it: their mailbox knocked over, not just shot up; garbage tipped over and scattered when it was out for collection; one of the screens on the porch torn open. Ben found the latter rather chilling, that they had gotten so close to the house, and without Buddy making a sound about it. “Not a watchdog, either, are you, boy?” Ben said, as Buddy danced around him, eager to be let out. Ben came out one morning when he’d failed to park in the garage to find his gas tank empty and a potato in the exhaust pipe. He was stupidly grateful they hadn’t put sugar in the tank instead. Then angry at himself for the gratitude.

Then Khalil, out running alone instead of with Marc as he usually did, was forced off the road and nearly hit by a truck without a license plate. Only a rolling dive off the shoulder into the woods saved him from injury. Whoever it was shouted, “Raghead faggot!” out the window. Marc was furious.

“It’s not just harassment,” he said, when Khalil called him to report it. “We’re verging on hate crimes now, if we’re not already there. You can’t describe the truck?”

“Not well,” Khalil said from the side of the road, still trembling a little with the aftershocks. “Dark blue or dark green I think. Smaller than Ben’s Ford. So maybe a Toyota or Nissan instead of a Dodge or Ford. Older model, maybe, kind of beat up. Tailgate was coated in mud so I didn’t see a brand name. Open bed. Best I can do, Marc.”

“Better than most,” he sighed, “considering you were diving out of the way at the time. Well, we’ve got a list of probable suspects. I’ll look around and see if any of them have a truck similar to that. You need a ride home?”

“No, I’m out by the S-bend, a mile or so from home. I can run it. I’ll have to, to stay warm. Thanks. It’s going to be ugly, Marc, when it comes down. I’ll try not to hurt anyone, but I can’t guarantee it.”

“Don’t try too hard. As far as I’m concerned, if you don’t start it, it’s self-defense. And they need the lesson; you’re not the first people they’ve bullied. I’m going to stick as close to you as I can, man, but watch your six.”

“I thought I was done with that,” Khalil said tiredly.

“You should be. Let’s make sure you are this time.”

Halloween came around and Khalil was ridiculously amused by the number and variety of trick-or-treaters who showed up at their door. Observing the local custom, Ben had put a carved pumpkin lit by an LED tealight on top of what was now their fourth mailbox to let everyone know there were goodies to be found up the drive. Many who made the trek were students from the dojo and their siblings, but most were strangers. Khalil figured it offered an easy and legitimate way to check out the new guy in town, and was fine with that. Word also got around rapidly about the quality and generosity of the loot to be had. All the Nikkari “kids” came over, trekking through the woods, including the ones who were old enough to drink beer. Quin used the occasion to expand his Rasta look while Kit went as his namesake, Kit Carson, in a rawhide jacket and Stetson, both effects somewhat spoiled by orange plastic pumpkins they were toting to carry their candy. The younger Nikkari’s, all three of them, were wearing the latest superhero drag, one of them gender-bending it, to Ben’s not-so-secret delight. Buddy was the real hit of the evening though, bounding to the door with each knock in a doggie stegosaurus costume, wagging his armored tail in a frenzy of delight.

Khalil, who had never celebrated Halloween as a child, had almost been talked into one of the T-Rex costumes by Marc but decided to play a grownup this year. Ben, who had never celebrated Halloween either, had let the holiday blindside him and missed his opportunity entirely. He was already plotting next year’s party. Maybe then they could all three do the dinosaur thing and really deck the place out like Jurassic Park. He’d secretly bought and hung skull string lights from the eaves outside though, which Khalil was also secretly amused by, while complaining bitterly about their tackiness.

“Hey, you specified no flamingoes,” Ben riposted. “You didn’t say anything about sugar skulls.” This, fortunately, did not lead to another house rule.

But when they got up the next morning, the conservatory had been egged and toilet-papered—and soaped with anti-gay and anti-Muslim slurs. Ben was pretty certain it wasn’t any of the kids. So was Khalil, who took pictures and sent them to Marc before turning the pressure washer on the mess. That took most of it off but Ben raged about it for a good hour, swearing bitterly as he wiped down the windows alongside Khalil, who seemed annoyingly sanguine about it.

“Too late to stop it, and nothing was broken,” he shrugged. “Even if it were, I have insurance. I’m just continually amazed at how juvenile these stunts are. I’m also happy they didn’t do something like set fire to the house. That said, I want to get this over with with.”

“I could soap Jeff’s truck with a message like ‘bring it, motherfucker,’” Ben said, only half sarcastically.

Khalil shook his head. “We’d be starting it then. Sun Tzu says, ‘He who is prudent and lies in wait for an enemy who is not, will be victorious.’ This is not the most prudent bunch we’re dealing with here. The less we react to them, the more frustrated and reckless they’re going to get.”

“Yes, sir. You’ve actually read Sun Tzu?”

“Required reading in Officer Training. I’ve still got my copy on the shelves somewhere. You should give it a look.”

Khalil thought later how ironic it was that the asshats picked Veterans’ Day to finally come out of the woodwork, and where they decided to stage their “lesson.” They waited outside the dojo until Khalil’s students left and he and Ben had closed up the building. Khalil rounded the corner of the dark parking lot with Ben behind him and found their path to the tank blocked by about a dozen men. He saw a sprinkling of bats, tire irons, and crow bars, but mostly fists. Jeff Robinson was front and center, smirking, with a baseball bat in hand.

“Can I help you gentlemen?” Khalil said, popping the locks on the tank and making at least two of the crowd jump. “Class is over for the night, but I’d be happy to sign you up for next week.”

“You’re the one who’s getting a lesson tonight, raghead faggot. You and your little fucktoy.”

“Oh, Jeff, was that your old beater that almost ran over me a few weeks ago?” Khalil said, shaking his head sadly. “I thought I recognized your dulcet tones.”

Robinson didn’t have a comeback so he lunged forward and started to swing. Khalil stepped inside the strike, trapped the bat and Robinson’s hands with it under his outside arm and swept his inside arm across Jeff’s neck as he kicked the man’s feet out from under him. Once Robinson was down on his back and Khalil had made him drop the bat, he kicked Robinson’s knee hard enough to make him howl and whirled to face the next attacker, who came at him barehanded with a roundhouse punch. Again, Khalil stepped in, blocked the punch and drove his elbow into the guy’s chin, snapping his head back and sending him down, limp, head bouncing as it hit the cold, hard ground.

In the background, Ben had his phone out and was speed-dialing Marc. “Dojo! Now!” he snapped when Marc answered, and shoved the phone back into his pocket, still connected. Khalil was already dealing with numbers three and four. Number five came for Ben, barehanded, and Ben, feral grin on his face, dropped him with a palm strike to his chin. Khalil put three and then four on the ground in quick succession: three with a bruising throw that twisted the man’s shoulder brutally and knocked the wind out of him, while four made the mistake of grabbing for Khalil’s arm as he swung a heavy fist at Khalil’s face. He twisted the arm that grabbed him into a fulcrum and used their combined momentum to slam him into the tank so hard it bounced on its shocks and sent number four rebounding into a hard fall on his back, cracking his head on the pavement. The remainder of the crowd hesitated, seeing five of their number on the ground in less than a minute, either unconscious or moaning. Khalil hadn’t broken a sweat. He retrieved the bat from where Jeff had dropped it and offered it handle first to Ben, who took it with a sly grin.

“Let’s just quit now,” Khalil said. “Nobody else gets hurt or goes to jail. Sheriff’s already on his way here, and the rest of you can go home before he arrives. No harm, no foul.” Robinson tried to get up, despite the knee swelling visibly beneath his jeans, and Khalil grabbed his arm, twisting it in a lock that flipped him face-down and had him cursing the air blue. “Shut up, Jeff, and stay the fuck down so I don’t really have to hurt you,” Khalil said and tweaked his hold enough to make Robinson whine and stop swearing. “We’ll just forget who else we saw here,” Khalil went on conversationally. A siren wailed in the distance. “But I’d make it quick.”

Uneasy glances were exchanged and a couple of men had started to move back toward their own vehicles when a small man about Ben’s height and armed with a tire iron broke from the crowd, yelling, “I’ll get the devil out of you, boy! Once and for all if it kills one of us!” He swung the tire iron at Ben’s head and it was just barely blocked in time with the bat. Before Ben could block him or Khalil could stop him, he swung it again and hit Ben hard in the ribs, just about where the depression in his ribcage already was. Khalil heard a sickening crack and Ben doubled over and went to his knees with a thick gasp, dropping the bat, arms around his chest.

Later, Khalil didn’t quite remember what he’d done, only that he’d dropped Robinson’s arm and gone for Ben’s attacker and that Marc had to peel him off the man, and just barely succeeded in getting him off before Khalil broke the man’s arm or did something worse. When his vision widened out again, there were three township cop cars in addition to Marc’s personal SUV sporting its own flashing rooftop cherry. As he watched, an ambulance and an EMT bus rolled up.

“Back with me?” Marc said, walking him to stand by the tank. An EMT trotted over to Adi, who was kneeling beside Ben, and Khalil started to head that way but was stopped by Marc’s hand on his chest. “Sit tight, buddy. Adi’s got it covered. Tell me what happened.” He maneuvered Khalil so he could open the passenger door and then gently pushed him onto it.

Khalil put his feet up on the step and rested his elbows on his knees, scrubbing at his face. Now that the adrenalin had worn off, he felt nauseated and shaky. Marc handed him a water bottle and he drank half of it down, then described what had happened. “Then some scrappy little shit went after Ben and got him in the ribs with a tire iron.”

“And you went after him,” Marc concluded. “Stupid shit’s lucky you didn’t kill him. Or even hurt him much. That’s Ben’s dad, Kal.”

“Christ and Allah,” Khalil muttered. “I’m glad I didn’t know that. You might be busting me for murder now.” He’d been watching the EMT with Ben all the while he was talking to Marc. The young woman stood up and walked over to them both when Adi pointed her in their direction.

“Hey, Marc. Mr. Cahill, right?” she greeted them, not seeming very worried. One of the ambulance attendants was helping Adi get Ben to his feet and walk him over to the EMT bus. “We’re going to take O—Ben up to the trauma center for x-rays. He’s got all the signs of a pneumothorax, but there doesn’t seem to be any internal bleeding. He says he’d like you to go with him, Mr. Cahill. Since his dad did this to him, I’m okay with that.”

“He’s of age, and he can ask whoever he wants to go with him, Benita,” Marc told her, not unkindly.

The young Latinx looked surprised. “That’s a new development,” she said.

“Lots of secrets in that family,” Marc said by way of explanation. “C’mon, Kal. I’ll send Adi behind you with the tank, and when it’s wrapped up here, I’ll come find you all at the trauma center. I imagine we’ll be sending one or two of these assholes along behind you, too, before they go off to court for arraignment.”

Ben was lying down on the gurney inside, IV line taped to the back of his hand and arms folded gingerly across his ribs when Khalil squeezed himself into the back of the EMT bus behind Benita. She smacked the wall between them and the vehicle moved off with a low growl. Khalil put a hand on Ben’s leg and Ben groped for it. When Benita leaned back, he got his first good glimpse of Ben, who was pale and glassy-eyed. They smiled at each other wanly. “That could have gone better,” Ben said in a breathy whisper. His lips were a little blue and he was breathing in short, shallow gasps, obviously in pain.

“Could have gone worse, too,” Khalil said. “Good block with the bat. Now shut up, soldier. We’ll talk later when you can get some air. Just take it easy. You’re doing great.”

“Yes, sir,” Ben whispered and closed his eyes as the EMT put an oxygen mask over his face.

The ride to the trauma center seemed absurdly long, and was, in fact, over an hour. “What the hell do you do with people who are really hurt?” Khalil asked Benita in barely stifled outrage.

“Medevac, if we can get them. Your friend Adi’s flown some out to the bigger trauma centers a couple hours away by car, or over to the VA in a pinch. We could at least use a standalone that was a little more central though, just to get folks stabilized. Gunshot wounds often don’t make it. I’ve really come to hate hunting season for that reason. And Saturday nights.”

At the hospital, there was a bobble. Khalil was not next of kin and thus Ben had no one to speak for him. They’d have to take care of that somehow, before Ben went off to college, preferably sooner. His real next of kin had just tried to kill him, but federal laws were federal laws, blind as they were to the reality of relationships. At least the insurance hadn’t been a problem.

Adi sat with him while he waited and worried and paced, bringing him terrible coffee and holding his hand. Only when Marc appeared did he get a real report on Ben’s condition—good and resting comfortably, lung reinflating nicely—so Marc and the township cops could know what to charge Ben’s father with. They were still negotiating jurisdiction, since this was the culmination of a long-running string of county-wide misdemeanors, at least by Jeff Robinson. It was early morning before they finally let Khalil in to see Ben, who was asleep with an IV and a chest tube in him. The blue was gone from his lips but his eyes looked bruised, more from exhaustion than trauma. Khalil leaned down and kissed his forehead. “I’ll be back, boyo,” he whispered. Ben’s eyes fluttered open and he gave Khalil a faint smile and closed them again, sleeping the sleep of the drugged.

“So what do the charges look like?” Khalil asked Marc when he was back in the hall outside Ben’s room.

“Well, none for you, you rascal, or for Ben,” Marc said with a grin. “Your dash cam and the dojo security camera make it pretty clear who started it. The charges depend in part on you, and whether you want to press them.

“I’m sure as hell not letting Jeff Robinson get away with this kind of shit anymore,” Khalil snorted. “Didn’t you say he’s bullied other people too?”

“All of that crowd has, even the ones who tried to slink home before we got there. I understand you offered some of them parole for backing off.”

“I did, and I won’t go back on my word. But the others deserve whatever they get, and I’ll be pressing charges. What Ben wants to do about his dad though—”

“Well, that’s a bit different. We—the township cops and EMTs and I—talked it over and decided a psych eval was probably in order, given that he was still screaming about Ben being possessed and you dragging his son down to hell with you.”

“Where all my friends will be, in a grand old party,” Khalil said wryly. “Seriously, though, that might be a good thing. Ben’s told me some stories about him that sound like bouts of mental illness. It’d be great if he’d get some help.”

“If he’ll take it,” Marc said grimly.

“Aye, that’s another thing. It might be best for him if Ben did press charges. It might be the only way he does get treatment. I’ll have a talk with him about it.”

Adi and Marc went home, and Khalil got himself a hotel room and caught a few hours of sleep and a meal before going back during visiting hours in the early afternoon.

Ben was propped up in bed, listlessly watching the TV, still pale and bruised, but no longer blue. Khalil was glad to see the chest tube and IV were gone too. He brightened a bit when Khalil came in, especially when he realized he was carrying something other than hospital coffee. 

“Once again, you save my life,” he said, accepting the go cup from Khalil and taking a sip. A look of bliss crossed his face. “Not as good as ours, but it’ll do in a pinch.”

“It will,” Khalil agreed. “How’re you feeling, boyo?”

“Sore as hell again, but at least I can breathe. Feels like the first time he did this, only he broke three ribs this time instead of just one.”

Khalil winced. “Ribs always hurt like hell. Did they tape you up? That helps a bit.”

“No, I guess they’re not doing that anymore. Nice drugs, though. Wheee!” Ben grinned. “One good thing is the original break got straightened out this time so I won’t have that stitch in my side after this heals up. Theoretically. Guess I won’t be in the dojo for a while.”

“And you’ll have to be careful when you go back. Once you’ve had one collapsed lung, it’s easier to get another.”

“Gee, thanks, Dad,” Ben said bitterly, and Khalil winced.

“About your father,” Khalil began, “Marc—”

“I’m pressing charges,” Ben said flatly. “Kevin Halla, one of the township cops, came in this morning and told me they ordered a psych eval for him. If I press charges that’s probably the best chance of him getting treatment.”

“Aye, beat me to it,” Khalil said, glad this wasn’t going to take some convincing on his part. “Marc and I talked about it last night. I’m pressing charges against Jeff and the rest of his posse who actually came at me. You should do the same with the one who came after you. Rumor has it you broke his jaw. Well done.”

“You know, I don’t seem to feel bad about that at all. What was the damage on your end? Do you know?”

“Cracked Jeff’s patella and tore his rotator cuff. I don’t feel bad about that, either. Slight concussions in two of the others from hitting the pavement: an object lesson in the importance of learning how to fall well. The fourth is just bruised up. Jeff’s here in the hospital with you. I dropped by on the way in. He’s threatening to sue me. I just laughed.”

“I’m sure he’s terrified about the medical bills. I can almost sympathize with that.”

“He won’t have any.”

Ben gawked at him. “You’re going to pay that asshole’s medical bills after he tried to beat you with a baseball bat? What the hell, Khalil?”

“Don’t you think it would gall him to know I’d saved him from bankruptcy?”

“No, I think he’d treat it like blood money. You’d be the guilty one and he’d deserve to have you pay for what you did to him. He’s that much of an asshole. Why do you think he’s threatening to sue you?”

Khalil looked thoughtful. “Good point. I just don’t want to see his family suffer because he’s so damn stupid.”

Ben shook his head in wonder. “You are such a softy. Marc’s right. But he’s a bachelor, Khalil. Never married. ”

“Oh ho. Is he now?” Khalil responded, looking surprised, and also like the dominoes were falling in a new order. “That might explain a few things, eh?”

“Yeah, it might,” Ben agreed. “You might have noticed it’s hard being queer up here. I’d still at least let him sweat. I don’t think he’s ever suffered any consequences for being a vicious asshole before. And being beaten up by someone he fears like he fears you, like he fears _being_ you, that might be a game changer. Or not.” Ben shrugged and winced. “Regardless, he’s still a White Supremacist piece of shit too. I’m not about to start feeling sorry for him. I don’t think you should, either.”

“I’ll, ah, hmmmm. I’ll take that under advisement, Ben,” Khalil responded, thoughtful look on his face. “I’ve something to think about now.” Ben smiled at him, a little lopsidedly. “What?”

“I’m just not used to being taken seriously, I guess.”

Khalil gave him a grave look. “I will always treat your opinions and ideas seriously, my lad.”

“And that’s just one reason I love you.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ben recovers, the holidays happen, friends come to visit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Winding down. Just one or two more chapters to go. Not much action in this one, but it gives you a little peek into Khalil's accumulation of beneficiaries.

The hospital released Ben the next day, and Khalil drove them home with extra care. One of the Nikkaris, with whom Khalil had entrusted a set of house keys along with Marc and Adi, had walked and fed Buddy in their absence, but he was very glad to see them. Khalil had been a little worried that Buddy would jump on Ben when they came in the house, but he seemed to sense Ben had been injured and just came over to give him a good sniff, lick Ben’s hands, wag his tail, and woof enthusiastically. Once inside, Khalil helped Ben wash up in the shower, changed his chest tube dressing, then settled him on the couch, in his sweats with a blanket and pillows. Buddy crept over and put his head on the edge of the cushion, whining a little, then licked Ben’s hand and face almost tenderly.

It was harder than Khalil had thought it should be, watching Ben first get hurt and then recover. That berserker-like, amnesiac battle fog he’d fallen into with Ben’s dad had happened before and it scared him, period. It meant a loss of control that he’d struggled to maintain his whole time in the army, one that had sent him to martial arts in the first place. Each time he’d fallen into it, it had been someone he’d cared about in danger—Marc, one of his squad, Michael—but it was no way to fight and led to injuries and overkill too often. Or combat medals, he thought with chagrin, rewarding bad behavior. Khalil shuddered, glad Marc had been there to pull him off Ben’s dad before he’d done something unfixably bad.

The first few days for Ben went by in a haze of painkillers, sleep, and good food, leaving him uncharacteristically quiet. It was easy to see everything was twice as hard as it should have been because he moved so slowly and needed so much help: getting up, lying down, getting dressed, even eating. At night, he’d sometimes start out of sleep, gasping at the pain the sudden movement caused. Khalil was pretty sure he was seeing that tire iron come at his head with his dad on the other end of it. Buddy stuck close those first few days, climbing carefully up on the couch with Ben, and lying down beside him with a little sigh when Khalil wasn’t there with him, and sitting on Khalil’s feet when he was.

Ben didn’t seem to have the concentration to read, thanks to the painkillers, so he and Khalil binge-watched TV instead. Strangely enough, Ben was utterly uninterested in the house buying/renovation or architecture porn shows, but fell in love with _The Repair Shop_ and the clocks and stained glass and furniture they fixed. They spent a couple of pleasant afternoons snuggled on the couch together watching two very sweet English women repair ancient teddy bears and a handsome horologist tinker with beautiful old clocks and antique toy cars.

Khalil coaxed him off the couch from time to time for walks with Buddy and made him do the breathing exercises he’d been given to keep pneumonia at bay. It snowed a few inches not long after he came home, and he went out to watch Buddy rolling in it and snapping at snowflakes as they came down and at the snowballs Khalil tossed him. When they came in, Khalil helped Ben lie down on the couch again.

Mark and Adi dropped by on the weekend to inform them that their 45-second takedown had made the regional press as front page news, and that it was being described unofficially as a hate crime, not for the anti-gay remarks, but only for the anti-Muslim ones.

“Stupidly, we still have no hate crime legislation dealing with LGBTQ status in this state,” Marc groused, “so I can’t charge that dumb motherfucker Jeff with shooting up your mailbox because it had pink triangles on it—just with shooting it up, period. I _can_ charge him for soaping “raghead” on your greenhouse glass, though, and keying the tank based on what you reported about the confrontation. And for calling you a raghead before he tried to hit you with a baseball bat and when he tried to run you over. That was his truck, by the way, an old one he’d resurrected just for the occasion.”

“And the unarmed guy who came after you, Ben,” Marc continued, “skates on the hate crime entirely and gets charged with simple assault and will probably get off with probation or a fine, like the ones who came after Khalil barehanded. The ones who hung back might get probation, if anything. Jeff and your dad had weapons and get charged with felony assault. I think Jeff’s the only one who might do some serious jail time, though. He’s got a record already and this ain’t his first rodeo on charges like this. I lie awake at night thinking up charges for him: inciting a riot, heading a criminal organization, driving without plates or inspection stickers….”

“And my father?” Ben asked, face expressionless.

“I think they’re still trying to figure out a diagnosis. The judge gave us 30 days. The good news is that your mom came forward and gave evidence that he’s been obsessing about you and beating her, so he’s clearly a danger to others, if not himself. But again, we can’t charge him with a hate crime either, just felony assault.”

“That is some fucked up shit,” Ben complained, really angry at the discovery that nothing in the state law protected him and Khalil against those specific kinds of attacks.

“That’s something we’ll have to start lobbying for, then,” Khalil said pragmatically. Marc gave him the stink eye. “What?” Khalil said. “You’re the one who ran for an elected office. I’m just doing what citizens do: petitioning the government for a redress of grievances. It’s my First Amendment right, Sheriff. Dissent is patriotic. The ACLU says so,” Khalil reminded him with a spark of mischief in his eyes.

“He’s not wrong, honey,” Adi reminded him.

Marc sighed in a put-upon way. “No, I know he’s not. I just know what Kal’s like when he gets a cause.”

“He does tend to throw money at things, doesn’t he?” Ben agreed, smirking.

“Yeah, he’ll be chartering Adi’s boss to fly him downstate for personal meetings with the governor, next.”

“I can do that? Cool,” Khalil said, just to get Marc going. He refused the bait though, merely throwing Adi an _I told you so_ look. Undeterred, Khalil said, “Right now what I’d like to throw some money at is a small, standalone trauma center or emergency room in the area.”

“I would totally get behind that, Kal,” Adi said enthusiastically. “I’d love to have my medevac flights reduced. Or at least less dire.”

“Same here. Where are you thinking of putting it?”

“Hadn’t thought of anywhere yet, but I think the medical folks in the area should make the recommendation, not me. I like experts. No point in me making their job harder while I’m trying to help.”

“You are such a fucking do-gooder,” Marc taunted.

“Be nice, or I’ll name it after you,” Khalil replied.

Marc looked horrified and Adi laughed.

“We really came over to see what you were doing for Thanksgiving,” she said. “You know: Pilgrims? Turkey? Bickering families?” she elaborated when Ben looked blank. Khalil was at least familiar with it, from celebrations while he was the service. “You never celebrated that either, Ben?”

Flushing, Ben shook his head. “We did Passover, the way Jesus supposedly did it. That was it. No birthdays, nothing. My father claimed they were all heathen—excuse me— _pagan_ holidays.”

“Well how about a heathen dinner at our house this year? The girls will be home and we’d love to have you both. They’ve been asking about you, too, Ben, and said to tell you to get well quick. And that there have been developments on _Doctor Who_ , if you haven’t been watching. They’ll want to share those.”

“I haven’t been watching, as a matter of fact,” Ben said and shot Khalil a questioning look.

“You already know Adi’s a great cook,” Khalil said.

Ben nodded and turned to her. “Thanks, Adi, we’d love to,” he said.

“Can we bring something?” Khalil asked. “Dessert? A side dish?”

“If Ben feels up to making one of his fabulous pies, that would be great. If not, a bottle of your wine is always welcome,” Adi replied. “Jas and Kiara will be so excited.”

Ben did manage to make a pie the day before, but just barely. “Damn, who knew so many muscles were connected to your rib cage,” he muttered, panting a little after mixing the pie crust dough by hand and rolling it out. He had to get Khalil to pour in the filling for him, once he’d made it, but managed to arrange the pecans without too much difficulty. Khalil ferried it to and from the oven for him.

“You’ll start feeling better soon. You’re not even halfway through the healing process yet,” Khalil assured him.

“I just don’t remember it taking this long, last time,” Ben replied. “but that might have more to do with my memory than reality,” he admitted.

Khalil nodded. “I suspect you were out at the Nikkari’s hunting camp longer than you think you were. It would have taken a while for your folks to find a new place and empty this one out as thoroughly as they did, for one thing.”

“Entirely possible,” Ben admitted. “Alisa said I might never get that time back.”

“No great loss, it seems to me, when all that’s in it is suffering.”

Dinner was wonderful, and cozy, with just Marc and Adi, their two daughters Jasmine and Kiara, and Ben and Khalil. Jasmine and Kiara greeted Ben like an old friend, with warm, careful hugs and squeeing. The three of them were about the same age, and that suddenly made Khalil feel like a dirty old man. Marc watched that realization bloom on his face and just gave him the _I told you so_ look then squeezed his shoulder. “I’d kill you if you tried to date one of my daughters, but you and Ben are good for each other.”

Khalil raised an eyebrow. “And your daughters would kill you if you tried to interfere in their love lives the way you interfere in mine.”

“So they would,” Marc agreed. “I guess we’ll leave it at that. They’re all consenting, uh, adults. More or less.”

Khalil watched the three of them interact with a bit of envy; Ben seemed to have gotten to know them better than he had in all the time he’d been their godfather. That said, he’d been abroad most of that time, and now they were in college out of state, Jasmine at Georgetown and Kiara at Howard. They were going to be here over Christmas break, too, so he decided he’d invite them to dinner then, just the two of them, in an attempt to start getting to know them better.

Thanks to Adi and Marc’s daughters, Ben had discovered _Doctor Who_ _—_ the original series and then the reboot—the previous Christmas, and become a fan, entranced less by the Doctors (with the exception of the Tom Baker and Christopher Eccleston incarnations) and their companions than by the early cheesy special effects and the TARDIS itself, at least until the Doctor regenerated into a woman. “That’s completely badass!” he shouted at the Winston’s flatscreen when Jasmine and Kiara streamed the show for him. “Completely. Bad. Ass. About damn time, too. Too bad it wasn’t a Black woman. That would have been even better. Or a queer Black woman.”

“And this is why we adopted you,” Jasmine said, smiling and kissing his cheek.

“Allies are so important,” Kiara confirmed solemnly.

“As are fellow fans!” Jasmine insisted.

Ben, who was framed on the couch by both young women, took their hands and squeezed, in temporary lieu of a hug. “And so are friends.”

_Manizha Tareen <M.Tareen_ _@lse.ac.uk > 8:12 PM  
to Khalil Cahill_

_My Dear Big Brother,_

_I must apologize for taking so long to reply to your last email. I have been tidying up my thesis and getting ready for the viva and it has been absurdly time-consuming and a bit nerve-wracking, to be honest. But I am sure you will be as glad as I that my studies are nearing the end now and I will be able to make my own way in the world with the excellent education you made sure I received._

_I am excited and shocked that you have bought a house! I never imagined you settling down anywhere, let alone in the northern wilds of America! But Marc and Adi must be very pleased to have you nearby. Their daughters must be almost done with their undergraduate studies too, by now. Well, since you have settled down in one place, I thought that I should make sure that you are taking good care of yourself there, so I am taking you at your word and inviting myself for the winter break after Michaelmas term, if that is convenient for you. It seems like a very long time since we last saw each other, although I know it is only a little more than 18 months. And who knows where I will be after the Lent term and graduation?_

_Please let me know what dates (if any) are convenient for you. I hope to see you soon._

_With great affection,_

_Manizha_

_Col. K.L. Cahill, U.S. Army (ret.) <KLCahill@gmail.com> 6:28 AM  
to Manizha_

_My Dearest Little Sister Manizha,_

_I understand perfectly. This is a very busy and stressful year for both senior undergraduates and graduates, this final year of study, and I know how hard you’re working. It sounds like you’re doing well though, as I knew you would, but I’m sure you could use a break. It’s something of a trek to get here, but I would be delighted to see you any time during the Christmas break. The house has more than enough room for an extra guest, even with Ben (the young lad I introduced as Obi in my last email; there’s a long story there) still living here. I warn you, there’s quite a tale involved in that, but I’m eager to introduce the two of you. And Marc and Adi will be excited to see you again too. I know it’s been quite a while for them; I think you were still an undergraduate. And we have also acquired a very sweet pit bull named Buddy who will be happy to meet you too._

_And while you are here, if it’s not too much trouble, I have some plans to ask your advice about. But aside from that, I’m really looking forward to seeing you again,_ shirina _. Let me know what your travel plans are when you’ve made them. I’ll be happy to meet you at whatever airport you choose._

_Much love,_

_Khalil_

“So, you’re sure you don’t want to tell her about us before she arrives?” Ben said, when Khalil asked if he was okay with Manizha coming to visit. “Oh, wait, are you out to her? Is that the problem?”

“Not… explicitly, no. Meaning that we’ve never talked about it. She met Michael, though, and we were so ridiculously affectionate in private that I can’t see how she would have missed it.”

“Is she very religious?” Ben sounded worried, and Khalil thought this must be bringing up some not-so-old issues for him.

“Not that I’ve ever seen. She wears a _shayla_ or _hijab_ but the rest of her clothing is very Western. She’s very insistent about not hiding her prosthesis, for one thing, so I’ve seen her in above-the-knee skirts and in shorts.”

“What’s the difference? Between a _hijab_ and a, what’d you call it?”

“A _shayla_. That’s a little looser than a _hijab,_ sometimes. The scarf headcoverings are all very individual things, though. I think Manizha wears hers more out of custom than conviction. She grew up in it, so it’s feels natural to her. Of course, by now, it might also be a political statement with her, too, the way her prosthesis sometimes is. She’s very adept at navigating her own country’s misogyny and Western prejudices against Muslims and the disabled.”

“Man, there’s a trifecta of crap to deal with in this country: female, Muslim, and disabled.” Ben shook his head.

“Britain’s not much better. They like to think they are, but they’re not. But Christ and Allah help you if you try any of that on with Manizha. She’ll feed you your still-beating heart and make you like it.”

Ben grinned. “She sounds great. And not the kind of person to have a problem with your preference in sexual partners.”

“No, I don’t think she will. Frankly, I’m more worried about all the stories she’ll tell you about me.”

The trek from London wasn’t as bad as Khalil had feared, thanks to the tiny international airport that had sprung up on the now-closed Air Force base nearby. The feeder flight from downstate had been somewhat delayed thanks to the weather, but Manizha finally arrived late in the afternoon, as the light was fading. Daylight savings had fallen back a couple of weeks before, so the dark was creeping up on them earlier and earlier as they neared the winter solstice.

Ben had decided to wait at the house for them, to give them some time alone together, so Khalil was the only one waiting for Manizha when she came through the door from the tarmac outside, bundled in a down coat, wool scarf, and jeans.

“You did not tell me it was so cold here!” she exclaimed, hugging Khalil. She barely came up to the middle of his chest and hugged him tight around his waist. “At least I can only get frostbite on one foot!”

“I won’t let you freeze, _shirina,_ ” Khalil promised, laughing. He had always loved her sharp tongue, even when she was a child. “It’s nice and warm at home.”

She stepped away from him and looked up, scrutinizing him critically. “That is not a word you have used often. I am glad to hear it from you now. Does it truly feel like home?”

“It does,” he said. “But I’ll have to show you why.”

They collected her luggage, and he handed her into the tank, more because it was so tall for her than because of her disability. When they were buckled in and heading home, she launched in before he could.

“Tell me about this young man, Obi or Ben, or whatever he calls himself, Khalil. But first let me say again how sorry I was to hear about Michael’s death. I know that must have hurt you tremendously to lose him. I could see how close you were, how much you loved him.”

“Thank you, _shirina._ You were the only one who had an inkling of what Michael was to me, and that made it harder. I still miss him, but not like I did. That’s mostly thanks to a lot of therapy and the young man—Ben—I told you about.” He told her a brief version of the story then, how he and Ben had met, how they had started as employer and employee, and become friends and then confidants and now lovers.

“He is younger than I am?” Manizha said. “Do the tongues not wag about that?”

Khalil laughed. “Oddly, that’s the one thing I haven’t heard yet. It helps that I’m friends with the sheriff, and a veteran. Marc’s well-liked and there’s a large population of veterans here, so I’m another brother in arms. Small towns are funny: once they’ve gotten over their main objection to you—in this case, the fact that I’m half Iranian—they’ll swallow down the rest of it without blinking. And Ben has been an outsider his whole life, so I think it seems fitting to them that the two of us gravitated toward each other.”

“That is true,” Manizha acknowledged. “Little towns like their eccentrics, and you would certainly fit that description.”

“You wound me, Manizha,” Khalil teased.

“Even so, I am accurate in my assessment, am I not?” she teased back. “But you are also the person who makes friends wherever you go, a good man with a kind heart. How foolish not to accept a person like you into the community.”

“Thank you, _shirina._ That is high praise indeed from you. I think I have made some friends here, besides Ben, but it’s slow going. To be fair, I haven’t been here that long, and haven’t really inserted myself in the social life that much. Too busy working on the house.”

“And entertaining your new lover!”

“Yes, guilty as charged,” Khalil smiled.

She reached over and squeezed his arm. “I am happy for you, Khalil. I am happy that you seem happy again. I worried that you would not be, after Michael’s death. If this is partially Ben’s work, then blessings on his head. Go and multiply, my children.”

“Well, we have gotten a dog,” Khalil admitted. Manizha smacked his arm with her gloves and they both laughed.

And Buddy was first to greet her, racing out of the house to the tank when Ben opened the door, and running back and forth from driver to passenger side, the latter of which remained firmly closed.

Khalil stepped out and said, firmly, “Sit, Buddy,” and the dog immediately did, looking expectantly from Khalil to the now-opening door of the passenger side. Khalil went around and helped Manizha down as Buddy watched, then went to get her luggage as she greeted him. She scratched his ears and he licked her hand and immediately fell over to roll belly up for her, which delighted her. She rubbed his belly until he got to his feet to follow Khalil into the house. “Heel, Buddy,” he said, and the dog trotted obediently after him as Ben got the door for all of them.

Khalil had already warned her about Ben’s ribs, so instead of a hug, she kissed both his cheeks and took his hands in hers. “I am very glad to meet you, Little Brother Ben,” she said solemnly. “Thank you for making Khalil happy again, and helping him make a home for himself, finally.”

“The pleasure has been all mine, believe me,” Ben answered just as solemnly, but with a playful glint in his eyes that Manizha soon reflected. “And I always wanted a big sister. How did you know?”

“Doesn’t everyone?” she said while she plopped herself on the floor to take off her boots, revealing her prosthetic foot, and then stood up again with a hand from Khalil, and took off her coat. Ben reached for it, but she shook a finger at him.

“No, you have been injured, and I am far from helpless. Just show me where I should put my things.” Ben showed her up the stairs, which she climbed without any apparent difficulty, to the transformed office, where she hung up her coat and left her luggage and purse. “Khalil was right: it is very warm in your home. The floors are heated too?”

Ben nodded. “Copper piping run through the fireplace. We burn it all winter. Or have in the past. I don’t know if Khalil will.”

“You call him that too?” she asked, cocking her head. “I do not approve of that nickname Marc and his other friends call him—Kal.”

“I call him that because I think it’s a beautiful name,” Ben said.

She nodded, agreeing. “It means ‘friend.’ Did you know that? And his middle name, Liam, means ‘protector.’”

Ben laughed. “No, I didn’t. But that’s pretty perfect.”

“So it is. He has been both of those things for me since I have known him.”

“Me, too.”

“Stop talking about me and come down for dinner, you two,” Khalil called from the foot of the stairs.

“No yelling in the house unless it’s an emergency,” Ben replied with a grin, following Manizha out the door of the office. She looked at him questioningly over her shoulder. “House rule,” he said. “You know Khalil and his lists. They’re posted on the fridge.”

Khalil was up to his elbows in dough, kneading, surrounded by bowls and jars and packages of other ingredients, which caused Manizha to squee and jump up and down.

“You are making me pizza! What a lovely man you are! You know I love your pizza and there is not a good slice of pizza to be found in all London! Oh, heaven! Ben, has he made pizza for you, yet?”

“Come to think of it, no. I didn’t know that’s one of his specialties. Are we going to need an outdoor pizza oven?”

Khalil stopped kneading momentarily and looked thoughtful. “I hadn’t thought of that. But it might be fun to have one, along with a place to grill. Next summer, along with the hot tub.”

“I’ll put it on the list,” Ben said with a smirk.

“You are spoiling him, Ben,” Manizha mock-scolded. “He will become just another insufferable rich person if you keep catering to his whims.”

“Not likely with you around, _shirina_ ,” Khalil snorted. “Manizha is my conscience,” Khalil confessed to Ben.

“Not that he needs one,” Manizha said, clambering up on one of the stools to watch Khalil work. “He has been what Marc calls an ‘interfering do-gooder’ since I first met him. The best kind. Not the ones who swan in and do not speak the language or grasp the political and social nuances or think their culture is somehow superior because they have running water. Did he tell you how he managed to get me educated?” Ben shook his head, fascinated. “He made friends with the tribal headman in the village and promised to fund schools and scholarships for the boys only if he could also fund equal facilities for the girls and orphans. He would fly in unexpectedly and make sure it was being done. How many did you end up sending to college?”

“Besides you? Maybe a dozen,” Khalil replied, patting out the dough into a circle. “We got a fine engineer out of the bargain, two STEM grads, a number of teachers, and even a political science major. But everyone graduated from secondary school, and the schools are still in operation, much to the chagrin of the Taliban. That village has one of the best literacy rates in the country. More of the girls went to college than the boys. Manizha is the only one who will come out of it with a Ph.D., though. When I met her, she was nine and had already taught herself three languages besides her native Pashto. Like you, she’d read every book she could get her hands on. She’s the reason I made the deal I did. She said she wouldn’t go unless everyone could go, because it wasn’t fair otherwise.”

“And you saw that, immediately,” she reminded him.

“Well, you weren’t wrong,” Khalil acknowledged. “And so much of life is grossly unfair, especially to children. Why not make it a little less so when I can? Now, what do you want on your pizza, little one?”

Three slices each of a very large pie later, dishes loaded into the dishwasher and counters wiped, they retired to the living room with after-dinner decafs. Manizha was already yawning with the jet lag and politely refused, but wanted to hear what Khalil had been doing with himself this year. They talked mostly about the house renovations, and Khalil’s aikido class, and briefly about his plans to invest in the community, before Manizha began to fade. He sent her off to bed while he and Ben finished their coffee.

“I like her,” Ben said when she’d shut her door. “She’s really a spitfire.”

“I think she likes you, too, though I was pretty sure you’d get along. And Buddy rolled right over for her, didn’t you?” Khalil said, scratching the dog’s head where it lay in his lap. Buddy sighed and closed his eyes in bliss.

“I think that might have been more in the nature of a submission display,” Ben said, laughing. “She really takes no prisoners, does she?”

“I shudder to think what could have happened if she’d gone into law or politics instead of economics.”

“So you educated the whole village to get her to school. Wow.” Ben shook his head.

“It took an absurdly small amount of money to do it. Just a big enough fund to be self-sustaining, carefully administered. Don’t start me on this rant again; you’ve already heard it. We already know the benefits of education, especially educating girls, are exponential. And a girl like Manizha—what a waste it would be to let her go uneducated. Just like you.”

“I’m hardly Ph.D. material, Khalil,” Ben objected.

“It’s not a contest,” he replied. “You’ll find your way to whatever level of study suits your talents and interests best. And you’ll find opportunities for study wherever you end up that you hadn’t known you were interested in, so don’t feel that you’re locked into one pathway, either. As Jasmine said the other night, you do you.”

Ben chuckled. “Yeah, just sitting in a classroom is going to be a huge adjustment for me, I guess. Already the course catalogs look like a buffet, though.”

“So have a little of each when you start. Take risks, feel free to get in over your head, even if it means a bad grade. You’ll still learn something. How’s the portfolio coming, by the way?”

“Filling out, slowly. Are you still serious about building a trauma center? That would be a great project to add, but it’ll take some research. I don’t even know where to start designing that kind of building. I’ve just about got the original plans for the house recreated though. You should take a look at those some time. I’ll be sure to add the pizza oven/grill in before you do, though,” Ben said with his now-trademarked wiseass smirk.

“Don’t forget the hot tub, either,” Khalil added mirroring Ben with his own lopsided smile. “And whatever you do, don’t show them to Manizha. I’ll never hear the end of it. She’ll start calling me Jeff again.”

Ben looked puzzled. “Jeff?”

“For Jeff Bezos—in her mind, the single most greedy, reprehensible, stupidly rich person in existence.”

“That’s quite an insult, all right,” Ben agreed. “But you haven’t added anything except the garage that wasn’t already here, and this place doesn’t even rise to the level of a McMansion with a measly two bedrooms and two baths, even with that studio modification in the attic space. So unless you’ve got grand plans beyond the guest house, that’s hardly fair. Most of the original plans had more to do with sustainable, off-the-grid modifications than luxury.”

“Now that you mention it,” Khalil actually seemed a little embarrassed, “I was thinking about a bath house, not just a hot tub, in the Japanese style. I got very attached to those at the temples I stayed at.”

“Hmmm, something else off the breezeway, or totally separate?”

“Separate, I think. Tucked back in the woods, so it’s a bit of a trek to get to it. Then we can have a good roll in the snow and a naked sprint back to the house in the winter, like they do in the Scandinavian countries. And a fast sprint to beat the mosquitoes in the summer.”

“Gah! You can have a roll in the snow, you maniac,” Ben said, looking horrified. “You know how cold it gets up here in the winter? That’s like those Polar Bear nuts who dive into the lake every winter.”

“Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it, boyo.”

“If you say so.” Ben shuddered. “That’s still hardly a mansion, though, even with the bath house. I’m not even sure it rises to the level of a compound.”

“Matter of perspective, like most things,” Khalil shrugged. “The level of poverty Manizha grew up in makes this seem incredibly luxurious, though I’m sure you never thought of it that way.”

“Oh, hell no. Not that I had much to compare it to, except the Nikkari’s house, which is a good size because of all their kids. But it’s still just a house. There are a few McMansions scattered around the area, mostly downstaters who retire here, but it’s not a wealthy part of the state, by any means. Pretty hardscrabble for an awful lot. No jobs, no tax base, and when the base closed, that was a huge blow to local economy. I remember a lot of stores going empty all of a sudden. I think we’re still clawing back from that. So yeah, this is a good sized house for the area, but definitely not luxurious. Even the renovations you’ve done don’t bring it up to that level, despite the great materials you’ve used. That’s not what you want though, is it?”

Khalil shook his head. “No, I’ve lived in army barracks for too long to want a lot of luxury. I want comfort and a welcoming space for people I love. That’s all. This seemed snug and self-contained and had the potential to be that space when I saw it. Little did I know it would come with its own caretaker/engineer/architect.”

“You forgot sex slave,” Ben teased.

Khalil winced. “Please don’t say that. I saw too many of those in my travels. People—children—I couldn’t help.”

Ben got out of his chair and gently moved Buddy aside so he could straddle Khalil’s lap. He framed Khalil’s face between his hands and proceeded to kiss his forehead, his eyes, the tip of his nose, and then his lips. It felt like another benediction, or in this case, an absolution, when Ben whispered “You can’t save everyone,” against them and kissed him again. Khalil’s mouth opened under that pressure and welcomed in Ben’s questing tongue. His hands stroked up and down Ben’s back, burrowing under his shirt to find skin under the layers. His touch was light and Ben shivered a little under it and Khalil felt him wince, so Khalil stopped and just laid his hands against Ben’s warm skin while the kiss went on. It was slow and sweet and undemanding and when it was over they were both content to leave it there for the time being, and went up the stairs to bed.

Manizha’s visit flew by, with talk and dinners with Marc and Adi, drives around the area, and the planned dinner with Jasmine and Kiara, made even more delightful by Manizha’s presence. Khalil looked around the table covered with serving dishes full of Persian and Afghani food, surrounded by faces half his age, and felt younger than he had in years.

He found Marc and Adi’s girls truly delightful in a way he hadn’t realized they were, though should have expected: smart, analytical, thoughtful, politically aware, funny and playful, and not at all shy. Kiara had Marc’s serious demeanor and Jasmine her mother’s sunny optimism, but both were intensely interested in the world around them, and in Manizha’s experiences. College had afforded them both the opportunity to meet people from other countries and backgrounds, and Khalil once again thought that was probably one of the best things about it, especially coming from a place that was so overwhelmingly white, conservative, and working class. Kiara had chosen Howard for just that reason, and spoke feelingly about how much she loved being part of the majority and not a minority for once. Jasmine agreed it was just nice not to be such a minority anywhere as they were here, and Manizha concurred.

“That must have been really different for you though, coming from a place where you were the majority to, like, London, which is cosmopolitan, but still colonialism central,” Jasmine said.

Manizha nodded. “Culture shock, is the term, I believe. When I first arrived there, I could not believe how absurd people were. The assumptions people make about one when one speaks the local language with an accent are shocking, let alone what reactions small differences of dress provoke. Who would think a scarf worn around the head would be so controversial? And yet many non-Muslim women do so all the time without remark. I will not even discuss the idiocy that losing a limb opens one to.”

“Right?” Kiara agreed. “For us it’s the hair thing. If it doesn’t look like white people hair, it must be unprofessional and wrong. Not to mention the people who just come up and touch it without asking. I’m just rockin’ my ‘fro, minding my own, and some fool sticks his hands in it.”

“Ewwwwwww,” Ben interjected. “That needs a smackdown. Wow.”

“My favorite thing is people telling me how well-spoken I am,” Jasmine added. “At least you don’t hear that at Howard.”

Ben seemed uncharacteristically quiet and Jasmine poked him. “We making you uncomfortable, white boy?” she teased.

“Yeah, but in a good way,” he said. “I’m realizing again that not only was I raised by wolves, but I was raised by bigoted White Supremacist wolves. This is all shit I have never had to think about and it’s kinda like a slap in the face. I mean, I never cared about any of this stuff because I didn’t have to. Now I’ve fallen in love with a man who’s half Iranian, and some of my closest friends are Black and more than half of you are women. And I have been totally fucking oblivious to the shit I’ve been programmed with my whole life that you have to deal with. It makes me kinda sick.”

“Right reaction,” Kiara said approvingly.

“Exactly,” Jasmine said. “That’s a great start. But I feel like you’ve always gotten it, since I’ve known you anyway.”

“Which isn’t that long,” Ben pointed out. “And believe me, I know there’s plenty of stuff I’m probably still totally oblivious to. I just—I don’t get it. I don’t get the whole need to think you’re better than somebody else, especially not because of things people can’t change about themselves. Like, did you ask to be Black? Or female? Or Afghani? I sure did not ask to be queer—or white or male, for that matter. So why should that stuff matter?”

“Because we make it matter,” Khalil said, “in the hopes that by putting others down, we can elevate ourselves out of our own misery.”

“Precisely,” Manizha agreed. “Alleviate the misery and so much of the drive to oppress others goes away. There will always be the power mad and psychopathic narcissists, but feed and clothe and shelter people, educate them, give them satisfying, safe lives, care for them when they cannot care for themselves, and they are less inclined to follow fools like that.”

“And get them out of their own little world,” Khalil added. “I would love to see a required year of travel somewhere, anywhere, be part of education. An exchange semester or a gap year or something. Once you realize that everyone, everywhere, wants just what you want—food, clothing, shelter, love, and respect—it’s harder to hate them.”

Manizha elbowed Ben and nodded in Khalil’s direction. “He has that look on his face again. The interfering do-gooder look. He is plotting something. Khalil, you cannot send every young person abroad for a year,” she teased.

“Spoil sport,” he responded. “I’m thinking about some kind of scholarship though. The only problem is that the ones who would take advantage of it probably don’t need it.”

“Everybody needs it,” Jasmine said. “Our culture is so steeped in racism that we’re all racist. That’s basically what Ben just pointed out.”

“You can’t save everybody, Khalil,” Ben said softly.

Khalil gave him a chagrinned smile. “So you keep reminding me. Well, _shirina_ , here’s another project for you to help me manage,” he said, winking at Manizha.

“I have been telling you for years that you need a foundation, Khalil,” she scolded, “with just a few employees because I know how much you hate overhead in these kinds of organizations. But if you continue to come up with projects, you cannot do it alone. And this is not my area of expertise. But I can help you find someone to help you set it up and run it. Let me talk to a few people at the LSE.”

“That might be a good idea after all, now that I’m settled in one place. I’ll be able to keep a closer eye on it.”

“And you will be well on your way to being that eccentric yet benevolent rich person every community should have.”

“I thought he was already well on on his way to that,” Ben chimed in, grinning.

“When I was little,” Manizha said, “I thought he was what the Koran calls a djinn. He came and went through the air and made so many of my dreams come true.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Winter descends and Khalil discovers he's a little out of his depth. Ben helps him pass the snowdays and stave off cabin fever. Buddy wonders what the hell his people are up to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW. Pretty much all you need to know.

And suddenly it was winter and Khalil felt deeply grateful for the woodpile that kept the fireplace stoked to warm the floors and for the central heating and thick insulation everywhere in the house. Because, _damn_ , it was cold. After the first blizzard, which arrived just after Manizha and Marc’s girls went back, the snow was up to Ben’s ass, if not his own. All the preparations Ben had advised—the garage, the snowblower, the paved drive, the tall reflectors lining it—all made perfect sense now. It was immediately clear to Khalil that he did not have the wardrobe for this kind of weather and asked Marc’s advice on coats and boots and gloves and hats, but also bought himself more flannel and fleece and sweaters. Buddy got his own cold-weather gear and provided comic relief while getting used to his doggie boots, prancing around the kitchen and shaking his feet. Ben bought himself a new coat for the winter too, “because we never had enough money for it and I’m tired of being cold when I go out. Not to mention hypothermia is not funny.” He made up emergency cold weather survival kits for the tank and his own truck and tossed a couple cement blocks in the backs of both too, for traction, after making sure Khalil got good snow tires.

But when it wasn’t overcast, the weather was amazing: a deeply blue sky, sparkling snow, stalactite icicles hanging from the eaves, and a sharp, crisp bite in the air. Ben had gotten him a pair of snowshoes for Christmas and took him out on the trails behind the house to get him started. His own were handmade of rawhide and wood, constructed the winter before his parents had abandoned him. Apparently his father had considered them clothing and left them behind with the rest of Ben’s things. Khalil’s were wood framed with a synthetic decking and quite a bit larger than Ben’s. He felt rather like Buddy in his boots trying to get used to walking in the snowshoes, but Ben assured him he would, and he did after some practice. And once he did, a walk in the woods on the trails swiftly become a favorite activity, especially with Ben to point out the wildlife and the signs of them along the trails. It didn’t take long to see what both Ben and Marc loved about this part of the country and its wilderness. It also made Khalil want a pair of cross country skis. Ben expressed an interest in those too, and Marc promised to teach them both.

Next door, the Nikkaris partitioned off part of their yard with plywood and flooded it to build a small ice rink, the sound of slapshots and shouts echoing through the woods as they played hockey. After that first blizzard, the snowmobiles came out, too, and though the Nikkaris were respectful of property lines, not everyone was. Khalil didn’t seem much bothered by it, but it pissed Ben off to see people whizzing through their yard from the trails and down their own driveway.

“How long have those trails been here?” Khalil asked.

“Longer than I’ve been alive, probably. They’re hunting trails and those usually start as animal trails. Why?”

“In England, there’s a public right-of-way codified in the law for any trail or land that’s been continuously in use by the public for at least 20 years. This house isn’t that old, so we’re the interlopers here, even if it’s not the law of the land. As long as they’re not partying on my front lawn at 2 am, I can live with the occasionally group or single snowmobile coming through. There’s not that many of them. What did your father do? Run them off with a shotgun?”

“Yeah, pretty much. There were ‘No Trespassing’ signs up all over the property. I took them down when they left. I’m not that antisocial.”

“But you’re grousing about folks riding through our land.”

Ben looked chagrinned. “Yeah, you’re right. Guess that rubbed off on me too, that isolationist attitude. It’s going to get harder for folks when we put in the breezeway, though.”

“Maybe we should think about how to direct them rather than trying to keep them off. Consider it traffic flow. Like get them to go around the garage instead of over by the greenhouse. Around the edge of the clearing and down the drive instead of right across it.”

“We can try it. People like their shortcuts though.”

So they spent an afternoon marking a trail along the edge of the clearing from the trailheads in the woods. Ben borrowed a snowmobile from the Nikkaris to make the first couple of passes back and forth from the driveway, then he and Khalil marked the outer edge with reflective arrows on stakes, and shoveled and marked a clear entrance/exit from the edge of the driveway, which was snow-covered but packed down and passable for both four wheeled vehicle and snowmobile. Then they filled in the old wish trail and blocked it with signs on either end that said “Detour. No Entry.” There were a few early goofs of people going the old way by habit, but it wasn’t long until the new trail became the mainstay.

“Those actually look kind of fun,” Khalil remarked, waving to a neighbor passing along the new trail as they took groceries into the house. “Obviously you’ve driven one before. Seems like they’d be a good stopgap for getting out in really heavy snow before the snowplow’s come around.”

“Yeah, my father had an old beater Ski-Doo that he bought from Tom Nikkari, and a sledge for hauling groceries and game when it got ass-deep to a moose out here. I used to take it down the trails too, for fun, when we had gas money. Thinking about buying one?”

“The thought occurred to me. They’re noisy fuckers though, aren’t they?”

“Yeah, and they scare the wildlife. But they’re not a bad emergency vehicle. They get used in some of the search and rescues up here. You should talk to Adi about that. It might be something you’d want to get involved in anyway. It’s a volunteer corps and they could probably use your experience.”

“Good suggestion. I’ll do that.”

But it was just beginning to sink into Khalil’s head that he was now living in a beautiful and dangerous place of which he had very little experience. Most of his postings had been desert areas, some mountainous with colder weather, but nothing like this. He learned to dress in layers and be mindful of his extremities. And driving on this kind of surface was very different from windswept sand, or sand-covered asphalt, or mud. He was not very confident about it. Marc, riding in the tank with him one day, complained he was driving like some old fart from Florida and promptly took him out on the driver’s ed course to teach him about driving on ice and snow. “Because I don’t want you rolling this thing over when you hit a patch of black ice. Which you will, at some time in your experience up here. Ben should probably get a lesson in this, too; he hasn’t been driving long enough on his own. Hell, everybody who lives up here should get one, truthfully. It would cut down on road accidents. It might just be the tourists then. Maybe we’ll offer one through the department.” He smacked Khalil on the shoulder. “See? I can be a do-gooder too.”

Ben took Marc up on the offer eagerly. He was already a good driver and had an innate, seat-of-the-pants feel for what his vehicle was doing. He thought doing donuts was just fun, but learning to drift around a curve and steer into a skid was even better. He skidded around the the track applying Marc’s lessons like it was an amusement park ride. Khalil could see him grinning all the way across the course. Khalil and Marc watched him from the sidelines, both with a touch of envy. “Wish I still felt that immortal,” Marc said wistfully. “You and me both, pal,” Khalil concurred.

He was also beginning to understand why people took up knitting and indoor hobbies in this climate. “People just kind of hunker down, don’t they?” he observed, standing at the window and watching it snow horizontally for the second time in two weeks.

“Yep,” Ben confirmed. “You live for the nice weather and go out when you can, but usually it’s too cold to stay out long, or it’s doing that outside,” he finished, gesturing out the window.

“What did you do?”

“I read a lot,” Ben replied from his place sprawled on the couch. True to his words, he had an e-reader in hand. “We went into town once a week or so, and I’d load up at the library. Mrs. Newsome gave me a special dispensation on the limit you could take out, because I read so fast, I guess. I always had everything back to her the next time I came in. I kinda feel bad I haven’t been there in—shit—three years now.”

“I have to meet this woman,” Khalil said. “I should get a library card too.”

“Next time we go grocery shopping. She probably wonders what the hell happened to me anyway. And I should ask her about writing a recommendation letter for me.”

“Well, thanks for recommending that giant Viking refrigerator, or we’d have to go out a lot more.”

“Didn’t take you long to grasp the importance of a chest freezer, either, did it?” Ben teased. It was filled right now with local beef and chicken, a couple of hams, lamb chops, and the venison the Nikkaris offered them after hunting season—and to Ben’s horror, even some goat.

He got up from the couch and stood behind Khalil, sliding his arms under Khalil’s many layers and leaning against him. “So, you know what the favorite snowed-in pastime is here?” he said, rubbing his roughened fingertips over Khalil’s nipples.

Khalil turned in his arms and slid his own around Ben, shivering at the delicious rasp of Ben’s callused hands. “No,” he said with a not-quite-invisible smirk. “What is it?”

Ben went up on his toes and pressed his lips against Khalil’s until they opened beneath his own. He pushed his tongue into Khalil’s mouth and went exploring, getting a hum of satisfaction from the exploree. “Fucking,” he whispered, when he pulled back enough to speak. “I’m a September baby for a reason.”

“Is that so? How come I missed your birthday? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Focus, Khalil,” Ben said, frowning. “We’re talking about fucking here, not my birthday.”

“Were we fucking on your birthday? Or close to it?” Khalil said, smirking openly as he started to walk Ben backwards across the room.

“Close enough for it to be a birthday present.”

“So what’s the occasion now?” Khalil said, pushing Ben against the arm of the couch.

“It’s Tuesday. And it’s snowing like a motherfucker.”

“Good enough,” Khalil said, turning Ben again and reaching a hand around to pop the buttons of his jeans, then sliding in to cup Ben’s package. He was hard already and whimpered a little as Khalil’s big hand closed around him, fingers stroking and kneading. He nibbled at the back of Ben’s neck and then bit down lightly, making him shudder. “Unbutton your shirt,” Khalil whispered against his ear and then licked it.

“Yes, sir,” Ben said, already trembling, fumbling at his own buttons. When his shirt was open, Khalil pushed his undershirt up and pinched his nipples, rewarded with a whine from Ben. His hands slid down then, beneath both waistbands, hooking his thumbs over them, pushing the cloth down around Ben’s ankles.

“Stay like that. Don’t move,” Khalil said, and bit his shoulder. He heard another whine as he moved away.

“Buddy, crate,” he said, shooing the dog to his bed inside and closing the door, then taking the steps upstairs three at a time. In a few short minutes he was back, standing behind Ben again and stroking his ass with a gloved hand. Ben had removed his shirts in the interim, and was shivering hard now, not from cold but anticipation. Khalil peeled off his own before pressing against him and bending him forward over the arm of the couch. “How do you feel about me fucking you, as a late birthday present?”

“Oh god, like it might kill me. In a good way. Yes, please. Yes. Please.”

It was the one thing they hadn’t done yet, which was saying something. In the last four months, Khalil had taught Ben everything he knew, and learned some new things himself in the process, as Ben practiced some of the ideas he’d gotten from his theoretical reading on him. He’d been surprised and delighted at how uninhibited Ben was, lapping up every new experience and sensation the way he devoured a good book. Khalil found it both rejuvenating and exhilarating.

“You’ll trust me? I won’t hurt you, love.”

“I never thought you would, Khalil. Please.”

“This may take some patience on your part. You’ll have to trust me to know when you’re ready. All right?”

Ben made a wordless noise of frustration. “Yes! Oh my god, Khalil! Get to it!”

“All right, you!” Khalil laughed, and slapped his ass. He slipped out of his own jeans and shorts, leaving them in a heap beside the couch, and went to his knees behind Ben. He pushed a folded dental dam between between Ben’s cheeks, and—thumbs holding it in place—split him open like a ripe fruit and ran his tongue over the tight muscle beneath the latex. It and Ben spasmed beneath the assault. He came up off the arm of the couch with a yell but Khalil pushed him back down with a hand in the middle of his back and went back to what he was doing—which was wriggling his tongue around and against Ben’s hole and slowly pushing into it. Ben was babbling incomprehensibly and squirming against the couch. Khalil kept it up until he felt the ring of muscle beginning to loosen, then pulled away.

Ben’s legs were trembling and he was breathing so hard Khalil was a little worried he might hyperventilate. He stroked his hands lightly up and down Ben’s thighs and rubbed his beard against Ben’s ass, then teased his balls into loosening away from his cock. “Don’t want you going off yet, hothead,” he murmured.

“You’d better tie me up then,” Ben panted. “I don’t want you to stop that, whatever you were doing. More, please. But I don’t know how long I can take it.”

“We’ll slow it down then.” Khalil leaned in and rubbed his beard over Ben’s ass again, and split him open once more, running his chin along the crack. He licked along it, starting close to Ben’s cock and running all the way up to the top edge of the dam, then started again from the same place, giving little flicks with his tongue. When Ben had stopped trembling so hard, he went back to his hole and wriggled his way in again. That set off another yell that made Buddy bark, which cracked both of them up. “Buddy, hush,” Khalil said when they stopped laughing. The dog gave a tiny woof and Khalil responded with a “shhhhhhhh” until Buddy calmed down. Ben was still snickering, but that changed to a moan when Khalil went back to work.

“Khalil, Khalil, stop, stop,” Ben gasped finally. “I can’t stand up. You’re killing me.” With his legs buckling already, Khalil caught him and eased him down onto his knees on the carpet in front of the fireplace, pushing him down onto his elbows with hand on his neck. He grabbed a couple of pillows from the couch and pushed them under Ben’s chest and giving him one to grip, but left his pelvis free. Then he curled over Ben and nipped again at his neck and shoulder.

“I think you’re ready for the next step, love,” he murmured against Ben’s shoulder, peppering it with light kisses and nips. Then he leaned back and grabbed the lube, coating one gloved finger and ran it up Ben’s crack, circling the loosened hole and slowly pushing his way in. Ben buried his face in the pillow and moaned, then threw back his head in a gasp when Khalil brushed over his prostate. “Oh god that’s good, Khalil.” What came out after was an utterly incoherent babble of phonemes.

It wasn’t long before he was ready for more. Khalil worked another lubed finger into him and just went still for a moment, waiting for Ben to adjust. “All right?” he murmured. Ben nodded. “Wish I could see this,” he said. “Just the image of your big fingers in me—Oh god, Khalil. Please move,” Ben panted.

“Christ and Allah, lad,” Khalil muttered. “I might not last m’self.” He sped up a bit, twisting and scissoring his fingers open, because Ben had lost any nervousness he might have had and was eagerly pushing back into his touch. “Almost,” he said, finally slicking a third finger and working that formidable bundle in carefully. Ben went very still.

“All right?” Khalil said again, running his other hand up and down Ben’s back. The lad nodded. “Just … close,” he said in a strained voice. “Wait. Wait.”

Khalil continued to run his hand over Ben’s back, but otherwise went rock-still, three fingers deep inside this beautiful lad who’d given himself so freely and openly that it even now made him blink away tears. “Oh, Ben,” he whispered, leaning down and kissing his shoulders and back.

“Love you,” Ben murmured, head turned to side and eyes closed in a dreamy expression. “Love you so much.” And a short moment later, “Okay. Okay. Go. I’m ready.”

Khalil slowly worked his fingers in and around, twisting and opening as he leaned over Ben’s back to cover it with more kisses and lick the sweat along Ben’s spine. Finally, he slipped his hand out and peeled off the glove. “No more barriers,” he said in a growl. “We’ve both been clean for four months.”

“Enough,” Ben agreed, as Khalil, achingly hard, slicked himself up and pressed the head of his cock against Ben’s stretched opening and pushed slowly in. Ben gasped, eyes flying open as he dug his fingers into the pile of the rug. Khalil stopped and waited, panting a little. “Oh my god, Khalil. Oh god that’s good.” And he pushed back, clearly wanting more. But Khalil went carefully and it was some time before he was fully sheathed in Ben’s body. He took one of the lad’s hands then to show him how they were joined, Ben’s fingers brushing the narrow band of Khalil’s hard flesh disappearing into his own body.

“Oh gods, Khalil, that’s like magic. That’s amazing. Move. I want to feel you move.”

Instead, he lifted Ben up so he was straddling Khalil’s lap, holding him around the waist and pushing him forward a little. “Take your weight on your knees,” he said, and Ben did. “Now you move as much as you like. I’ve got you.”

Ben leaned back, taking in as much of Khalil as he could get and shuddered, head thrown back, rough hands closing like iron cuffs around Khalil’s arms that were wrapped around his waist. “Khalil, holy fuck, holy fuck, that’s what this is, it’s a holy fuck, how can you be that deep inside me, I didn’t know, I didn’t know—” he babbled.

“Shhhhhh, shhhhh, little one,” Khalil murmured against his back, laughing a little and rubbing his face against Ben’s skin as though marking him like some big cat. The sensation seemed too much for Ben and he shuddered hard again and pulled away a little, and then started to move, rocking up and back. Khalil wrapped his hand around Ben’s already weeping cock, holding him around the waist with his other arm, and working him as he rocked on Khalil’s lap at an increasingly frantic pace.

When he tipped over the edge, it was with a mortal shriek that made Khalil’s ears ring and his heart thump hard in surprise, and made Buddy bark in excitement. Ben shuddered like a shock was going through him, back arched rigidly, fingers digging into Khalil’s arm hard enough to bruise, anointing the the carpet and Khalil’s hand. Then he sagged back against Khalil, shoulders shaking, tears running down his face and spattering Khalil’s thighs. He rubbed his face against Ben’s back again and moved his hand up against Ben’s chest to hold him, feeling his heart thrashing like a trapped bird. Buddy was yipping in his crate, which made Khalil smile.

“Hush, you, both of you,” he said quietly, gentling both animals with his voice. Buddy whined and then thumped to the floor of his crate. Ben was not so easily soothed. He leaned forward and braced himself on trembling arms on Khalil’s legs, still weeping. “Jesus, Khalil,” he gasped. “Jesus. What—”

“Hush, lad,” Khalil murmured, stroking his back gently. “It’s a bit intense sometimes, is all. Nothing’s broken. The French call it _la petite mort_ for a reason. It’s all right. It’s all right.”

After a few minutes, Ben recovered himself enough to realize something wasn’t quite right, though. “Wait, you didn’t—”

“No, I wanted you a bit more relaxed.” He moved them both forward so they were on their knees again, Khalil’s warm body pressed against Ben’s back and framing him, still buried deep in the younger man’s body. Ben leaned down on his elbows again, ass snugged against Khalil’s groin. He nipped at Ben’s neck, sucked a passion mark into evidence and licked it, then worked his way over Ben’s shoulder, nipping and licking with little flicks of his tongue. Ben shuddered under the assault and whimpered. He gasped when Khalil’s hand closed around his cock again, which was already filling once more, though Ben squirmed in his grasp.

“Too much?” Khalil murmured against his shoulder.

“Y-yes. No. It doesn’t matter. Don’t stop. I want to feel everything,” he panted.

“Do you, now, boyo?” Khalil grinned, sounding both pleased and somehow slightly evil. “I’ll make sure you do. You now what I’m up to now?”

“No, tell me,” Ben said, voice gone breathy, shivering against him.

Khalil nipped at his other shoulder and the back of his neck, then bit harder. Ben shuddered and gave a little moan. “I wanted you more relaxed,” he said, pulling out enough to slick his cock more, though he could barely stand the touch of his own fingers, “to give you a good, hard fuck.” He pushed in fast and hard, shoving Ben a little forward on the carpet, and making him gasp as Khalil raked over his prostate.

“Oh fuck, you’re going to killing me, Khalil. Don’t stop!” Ben insisted, one hand going to his own cock.

Khalil grabbed Ben’s hips and held hard, pulling him up off his knees little, and drove himself in deep, feeling the heat and welcoming tightness building inside and out. He wanted to make this last, to make Ben come again, so he made his first few thrusts shallow and quick and then rammed himself home hard enough to push another gasp out of Ben. He alternated for as long as he could before he couldn’t seem to stop himself from one deep, fast thrust after another, Ben wriggling beneath him and working his own cock, until he’d tipped himself over the edge with a groan that sounded even to his own ears like he was dying. That seemed to set Ben off again, and it was a good thing because Khalil bore them both to the floor in a sweaty, tangled heap, completely done in.

After a bit, he moved off Ben but snugged him close, tangling their legs and nuzzling into his neck. They both smelled of sweat and sex and slightly musty carpet. Buddy thumped in his crate, clearly feeling left out, and they both chuckled. They dozed for a bit, naked in front of the fire, Khalil luxuriating in the feel of warm skin against him and silk-and-wool pile beneath him. After a while, Ben moved in his arms and yawned, then muttered, “Holy shit.”

Khalil kissed the back of his neck. “Okay?”

“Yeah, just… I dunno, kind of, not freaked out, but stunned, I guess.”

“That doesn’t happen often, that kind of intense orgasm.”

“Probably just as well,” Ben muttered. “I don’t think I’d want it to.”

“No. It’s too much, too often. But it’s glorious when it happens out of the blue like that. I’m glad you got to have that. I’m glad I got to be part of it.”

Ben turned in his arms and kissed him. “And you?”

“I’m a very happy man, boyo, no fears there,” Khalil said with what he knew was a very sappy smile. “I’m happy every time we make love. I’m happy waking up in the same bed with you, and watching you come downstairs half awake and stumble for the coffee pot. I’m happy watching you nail two-by-fours together and make something from them. I’m happy sharing my life with you.” And he was. As happy as he’d been with Michael, though in a different way. Not different enough to matter, just different enough to make his beloveds each a unique presence in his heart.

Ben pushed a fall of Khalil’s hair behind his ear and cupped his cheek. “I’m just realizing how happy I am when I’m with you. How happy being around you makes me. I love just knowing you’re here, in the house with me, no matter what you’re doing. I love learning things from you, and teaching you things I know. I love walking the dog with you, and snowshoeing, and designing things for you. I love sharing a bed with you, waking up at night and knowing you’re there. And now I’m afraid to lose that when I go away.”

“You’ll be happy in a different way then: challenged, excited, learning, growing—all those things you’re eager for. You’ll make new friends too.”

“But they won’t be you. I want to have you to come back to.”

“Then we’ll work on it. You’ll be home for breaks. I’ll come see you when you have time. We can sneak around and have illicit romantic trysts in a hotel the night before your exams. I’ll whisk you off to Paris or Barcelona for a quickie.”

Ben laughed. “Paris is okay for a quickie, but I want at least a week in Barcelona for the architecture.”

“Done,” Khalil said, tapping the tip of his nose playfully.

Ben captured his sticky hand and gave it an experimental lick before interlacing their fingers.

“You don’t know where that hand’s been,” Khalil warned him.

“I know exactly where it’s been. I know exactly what my spunk smells like on your skin.”

Khalil shivered a little, something about the intimacy of that statement warming and reassuring him.

“What?” Ben asked, looking concerned.

“Nothing. I just—I thought I’d never have this kind of connection with someone again, know and be known by someone I felt this way about. I feel very lucky right now, however long it lasts.”

Ben leaned forward and kissed him tenderly. “I love you,” he whispered very seriously and looked right into Khalil’s eyes, his own a bright green suddenly, instead of the hazel-blue he was used to. “I love you so much, Khalil. I’m pretty sure that’s what this feeling is. I don’t think that’s going to change.”

Whatever defenses Khalil still had crumpled under Ben’s words. He ducked into the shelter of Ben’s shoulder and felt arms come up around him and embrace him, holding his head there, stroking through is hair. “I won’t leave you, I promise. I might go away for a while, but I won’t leave you. Understand?”

Khalil, speechless, could only nod and let the tears trickle down his cheeks and onto Ben’s warm skin.

They got up, finally, to wash up, Khalil sending Ben off to the shower first while he clean up the rug and pillows before letting Buddy out, then joining Ben under the stream of hot water. They stood under it, kissing for a stupid amount of time before actually soaping anything. And it was Khalil who soaped up Ben’s arse gently to make sure there were no tears and no blood. Even so, Ben was understandably sore and walking like it afterwards. They sat at the table, Ben on a cushion, for dinner, instead of at the counter. Instead of his usual soulful eyes, Buddy pranced around them, trying to figure out what was going on and what he’d missed. He’d given the rug and pillows a good sniff and woof when Khalil had let him out after cleaning them up. And Ben was uncharacteristically quiet, throughout the lamb stew.

“Everything okay?” Khalil said as they took the dishes into the kitchen.

Ben started as though he’d been elsewhere. “What? Oh, yeah, fine. Just thinking.”

“About what?”

“A pellet stove insert for the fireplace.” Khalil started to laugh and Ben looked mystified. “What? What’s so funny?”

Khalil put a hand on his shoulder and kissed his forehead. “I was just worried you were thinking about that orgasm and being penetrated—still processing it, you know? Maybe having second thoughts about bottoming that you might want to talk about. I’m not an easy top, I know.”

Ben gave him a wry look. “I imagine I’ll be thinking about that orgasm for the rest of my life,” he said. “The bottoming? Not so much. I’m fine with that. You as a top?” He gave Khalil an appraising look this time. “I _am_ wondering whether you’re more aggressive than you’ve let on. You were kinda bitey this time.”

Khalil pressed his lips together and then inhaled through his teeth, looking uncomfortable. “Yeah, that. Hmmmmm. Did it bother you? Do you want me to not do it?”

“Not necessarily. I got the feeling you were holding back though. Do you like it rougher than we’ve been playing?”

“Sometimes,” Khalil said hesitantly. “I’ve played in the BDSM world now and then. I don’t like it as a steady diet, just the occasional ‘treat.’ Michael didn’t care for it all, so it’s been quite a long time. You’re a pushy enough bottom that you probably brought that out in me. And there’s something—edible about you.”

Ben grinned. “Edible, huh?”

“Breakfast, lunch, and dinner,” Khalil said fervently.

“Don’t forget the snacks.”

Khalil backed him against the counter and dove in to nibble on his neck. “You are a delicious snack,” he confirmed.

Ben laughed and pushed him away gently. “Thank you. You’re pretty tasty yourself, sir.”

“See? Every time you say, ‘sir’ to me, with that little bit of defiance in it, it just makes me want to dom with you.”

“Does it? Well, we should discuss this in more depth, because I’m a little curious about the whole scene thing.”

“And I’m a little leery about it, honestly, because I haven’t played since before I met Michael, and I have no idea how it will mesh with my PTSD. Or yours, for that matter. We’ve both been working on some pretty awful things lately, and it hasn’t been that long since that flashback for me. And I know your father did some awful things to you. I don’t want to bring that back up for you. I don’t want to bring anything like that into bed with us.”

Ben looked thoughtful and nodded. “Good point. We can table it for a while, then. But just know that I’m open to it in the future, and that nothing you did today bothered me. I kinda like the idea of being marked by you.”

Khalil rolled up his sleeves and held out his arms, Ben’s fingermarks clear on his forearms. “Aye, me too, laddie,” he said.

“ _Mine_ ,” Ben said, and kissed him.

“ _Mine_ ,” Khalil murmured into his mouth.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Khalil and Ben host a house party, get library cards, and Khalil joins the VFW.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Didn't I say this was winding down? I did, didn't I. I think I might have been mistaken. We'll see.

Ben really had been thinking about a pellet stove insert for the fireplace the night before, and raised the question again the next morning, over the second cup of coffee that was becoming their time for discussing whatever household business needed to be discussed.

“Tell me more,” Khalil said sipping his coffee and eyeing the sparkling mass of white outside and the blue sky overhead. They’d have to go out and clear the drive again some time today, but he wasn’t in much of a hurry about it.

“Automatic feed, uses recycled and scrap wood—sawdust and such compressed into pellets—so you never have to poke the fire again, or cut anything down. It’s a nice, steady heat for warming the floors. If your electricity goes down, you can always shovel them in, too, like coal. I think my father had planned to put one in eventually, when they became available, but again, they cost money. We’d also lose some of the space in the basement, on the ass kicking side, for storage and the feed mechanism, and the ash collection. And you can compost the ash. You want a compost pile anyway, right?”

“I do. And the space in the basement doesn’t much matter. I mostly put that in to do the junkyard training with you. I can donate the mats to the dojo and we’ll use that side for storage. The ceiling is a bit low for martial arts work anyway. Can’t do any stick or sword work there, or much throwing. This would be another summer project?”

Ben nodded. “Unless you want to sacrifice your toasty floors for a couple of weeks.”

“Not really. I’m very much enjoying them,” he leered over at Ben. “You still get a nice, visible fire out of it?”

“Yeah, one you don’t have to wrestle with, and the feed’s programmable, with a regular thermostat. There are multi-fuel models as well.”

Khalil nodded. “Sounds sensible. And like they’d be good for the guest house and the bath house too. I like the not chopping down trees angle especially. Source it and give me an estimate and we’ll put it on the summer project list. Though I imagine we’ll be hiring this out, correct? Outside your expertise?”

“Way out, though it’ll be interesting to watch the installation and learn about the building codes that have to be met.”

Khalil brushed a hand over his head, ruffling his hair. “Always learning something.”

“What’s the point, otherwise?” Ben shrugged.

They had a big breakfast, fueling up for the clearing of the drive after yesterday’s storm. There was no wind when they went out and it had turned into one of those beautiful bright blue days Khalil was growing to cherish. He could hear the Nikkaris clearing their own drive, and the kids shoveling the rink. They were already familiar sounds that made him feel like part of the community.

Khalil fired up the snowblower and got started, while Ben followed after, tidying up the edges and cutting out the access to the new trail again. Buddy, dressed in his own parka and booties, cavorted through the snow, chomping at everything the snowblower threw his way and racing up and down the cleared part of the driveway. Khalil contemplated another summer project of bushwhacking a trail parallel to the driveway, leading to the road, so the snowmobilers and others didn’t need to come up his drive next year, for less wear and tear on the asphalt. When they reached the end of the drive, they found Tom Nikkari, Kit and Quin’s dad, supervising his two sons’ clearing of the last of their drive too. Kit and Quin were sweating with their shovels, but their dad, who reminded Khalil of some of Michael’s family in his tall blondness, was bundled up like the Michelin Man. They waved and met halfway between their drives on the road, which had been given a desultory pass from the county snowplow.

“Enjoying your first taste of our version of winter?” Nikkari asked, with a toothy grin, hands stuffed deep in his pockets. He was a jovial man, and had raised polite and mostly jovial kids with his equally jovial wife.

“Aye, parts of it,” Khalil responded. “Days like today, especially. The really cold ones will take some getting used to. I’ve spent a lot of years in warm climates so this is a bit of a shock. But I’m enjoying the snowshoeing tremendously, and looking forward to learning how to cross-country ski. I see you’ve put the lads to work on the drive. Our snow blower’s always available if you’d like.”

Tom looked surprised. “Thanks, neighbor. That’s a kind offer. As long as I’ve got big lunks like these two freeloading around the house I think we’re fine. Much appreciate the thought though.”

“Aw, Dad! Come on!” Quin complained. “Sensei Cahill offered.”

“You need the exercise,” Tom retorted. “You’ve been sitting on your butt playing videogames since the first snow.” He turned back to Khalil. “We saw your lights on last night. Are you totally off the grid now, like the Kenners were?”

“The power’s out? I hadn’t noticed. ” Khalil said, addressing the underlying situation first.

Tom nodded. “Since about seven last night. The power company’s saying it’ll be another eight hours or so until it’s up again.”

Khalil looked horrified. “You folks must be freezing. We’ve got the fireplace going and I put in a battery array in the garage to store the overflow from the solar panels, so yeah, we’re mostly off the grid again. And there’s a propane generator for backup. You all should come over and warm up. Use the showers, get some hot food. If it’s not on again by evening, you can stay the night. I’ve got a pull-out couch for you and Jill, the big lads can crash on the floor in the attic studio, and the wee ones on the mats in the basement or the rugs in the living room floor. I’ll bet you’ve all got sleeping bags; I’ve seen that camper in your drive.”

Ben had walked over to join them after finishing up the end of the drive, futile as that was before the plow came through for the last time, Buddy at his heels, waiting for Ben to continue throwing snowballs for him. “I know they’ve all got sleeping bags. Seriously, come on over. We’ve got plenty of room and it’s nice and warm. It’ll give Khalil an excuse to make massive amounts of food. He’s like Jill about feeding people.”

“Oh lord, two of them in the same house,” Tom said, rolling his eyes. “If you’re sure? It is fucking cold, I have to admit. I nearly joined the kids with the shoveling just to warm up, but I have to be careful since I had that heart attack.”

“Absolutely,” Khalil said, stamping his numbing feet and grinning. “I haven’t had a house party in ages. It’ll be great.”

And it was. Soon there was a pile of coats and boots near the door and the house was filled with the sound of conversation and excited kids, and Buddy’s happy woofing. Adi and Marc, also out of power, showed up as well after Khalil invited them, bringing beer. Khalil and Jill, who was a little, round, dark-haired woman, proved to be a formidable pair in the kitchen, turning out a huge pot of stew and dumplings and batches of cheese rolls to go with it. Ben and the older boys disappeared into the attic from whence the sound of online explosions soon came. The little ones made a camp in the basement with sleeping bags and a blanket and a very happy dog. By the time Marc got a notice that the power was back on again, it seemed almost a shame to break up the gathering, so they didn’t, staying for dinner and after. Khalil made hot chocolate and produced a bag of marshmallows and a handful of skewers for roasting in the fireplace which produced squeals and shrieks of delight from the kids. Then all of them helped lug little exhausted Nikkaris and their gear back home. “Don’t be strangers, any of you,” Khalil admonished before he and Ben headed back with Buddy. “The coffee’s always on. And I’m more than happy to play host when there’s no power. No need to suffer. Especially not the wee ones.”

Adi and Marc stayed a little longer afterwards for a last cup of coffee before heading back home too. When they were gone, the house seemed strangely empty and a little too quiet.

Ben helped him put the last of the dishes into the dishwasher and then settled on the couch with Khalil.

“Did you enjoy yourself, boyo?” he said, one arm around Ben.

“Yeah, I did,” he said in a surprised tone. “It was great to hang out with Kit and Quin again and find out what they’re up to. Kit’s talking about learning to fly choppers, like Adi, but doesn’t want to go the military route. And Quin, though he’s such an asshole sometimes, has been taking some amazing wildlife photos. He’s got a website, so I’ll show you. I learned a new video game, too, though I don’t think I’ll be doing that much.”

“Oh? Why not?”

“I’d go down that rabbit hole and never come up,” he said, shuddering a little. “Way too addictive. But they have a group game night once a week I think I’ll go over for. I’ve been isolating myself way too much, haven’t I?”

“I think we both have, but that’s not unusual in the circumstances. New relationship, lots of work on the house, and now the cold weather. But it’s good not to let it become a habit. And it’s about time I started making a social life for myself too. As you should.”

“So how about you? Did you enjoy yourself with the grownups?” Ben grinned and poked him in the ribs. Khalil flinched away and laughed.

“I did. It really was great to have a houseful of people again, and get to know the Nikkaris better. You’re right; they’re good folks. I didn’t realize he was a vet, too: two tours in Iraq.”

Ben looked surprised. “I’m not sure I knew that. He’s always just been the guy who owns the carpet store.”

“Is that who you got the flooring from?”

Ben nodded. “Tom gave us a good deal on that. If he does that for all his customers, I’m not sure how he makes the living he does. It was practically at cost.”

“Well, I’m glad some of my money wound up in his pocket. Don’t let him do that again, when we build the guest house and breezeway and bath house.”

“He’s been in business a long time, Khalil. I’m sure he knows what he can afford. Or Jill does. She does his bookkeeping.”

“I think,” Khalil said, after a short silence, “that while you’re over at the Nikkaris, I’ll take myself down to the VFW and get to know some folks there. Seems like a good time to do it.”

“I’ve pretty much got the plans for that drawn up. Want to see them?”

“I would. How did you manage that?”

“Blueprints are all on file with the county. I just got a copy from the county clerk. Hang on, let me get my laptop. Better yet, why don’t you come up to the studio to see them on a bigger screen?”

So Khalil trooped after Ben into his studio space, which still bore the evidence of three young gamers having occupied it shortly before: bottles of beer and chip bags on the table, pillows scattered around the floor, drying moisture rings on the desk. Khalil pulled up one of the folding chairs while Ben found the blueprints he’d modified and the elevation views of the new building façade. He’d enlarged it a little, giving it a bigger dining hall and kitchen with more equipment, a game room that backed on the bar, which was now double-sided to serve that and the main canteen, and a couple of smaller, private rooms off the dining hall for smaller parties “or AA meetings or whatever,” two offices, restrooms, and storage. “There’s a full basement that can be renovated, too,” he pointed out. The outside was clad in angled wood siding stained a dark green with a doublewide automatic door and a wheelchair ramp with treads, handrails, and an easy rise. A new steep roof would shed snow better than the one it had now, and support a solar collector array too.

I haven’t done interior drawings yet. I’d want to talk to the folks who use it, first.”

“This looks great, Benjamin,” Khalil said. “Can I get printouts of these?”

“Sure. If you want the full size I’ll have to get them printed elsewhere though.”

“No, just regular letter paper. I don’t want to scare anybody into thinking that I’m coming in and taking over. No hurry. I’ve got some connections to make first.”

The following Wednesday, Khalil found himself heading off to the VFW to meet Marc, who had promised to introduce him around. Marc was already a member and had been for years, but like many, not active in the small post that had little money. Tom Nikkari was at game night with his kids and Ben, but had admitted to dropping in now and then for a beer and attending an occasional meeting too. They were in luck that night, and both the quartermaster and commander were in residence at the canteen, so Marc could introduce him. As Marc had said, most of those in residence were Vietnam War vintage, with a few Iraq vets as well, but he and Marc were the only Afghanistan vets.

The post commander was an old major, Will Adamski, who’d been in the Tet offensive, an experience he freely admitted still gave him nightmares. Adamski was about average height, with ramrod posture, dressed in sharply pressed jeans, lined workboots, a black turtleneck and a cream colored cableknit sweater that looked hand-knitted. His eyes were still a sharp brown though his hairline had retreated from the battlefield long ago and raised the white flag.

“Got a few of those myself,” Khalil agreed, shaking hands. He’d braided his hair in a long, loose tail, and worn what was becoming his winter “uniform” of jeans and flannel and fleece with skiers silk beneath everything. He was thankful every cold day that Marc had introduced him to the stuff.

“I saw that POW/MIA sticker on your SUV around town,” Adamski said. “That a general or personal sentiment?”

“Both. I was briefly a guest of the Taliban before Marc and the rest of my squad got my ass out of there. That’s the stuff of my nightmares.”

Adamski nodded. “I knew a couple of guys who’d gone through the Hanoi Hilton for long stretches, like John McCain. That changes a man.”

“Sure does. Even the short stays do. So is it the usual rule that the new guy buys the first round?”

“Are you signing up, Colonel?” Adamski asked, looking him up and down.

“That was my intention, sir. I live here now and that means being active and investing in my community.”

“Not to be crass, but I hear you’ve got quite a lot to invest.” Adamski had the manners to look slightly embarrassed. “Small town gossip gets around, you know. I say that because this is a poor post and a few of us have ambitions to do more than we can afford.”

“That I do,” Khalil admitted, not really surprised that word had gotten around, and used to the way money greased the wheels of acceptance, but no less annoyed by the fact. “And I’m glad you brought it up first. I’d be happy to have a meeting with you and the other post officers about what you’d like to see get done, and how I can help.”

That generated a fair amount of laughter among the rest of the small group that confused Khalil until Marc clued him in. “We’ve only got Will, here, and our quartermaster, Eric Halla.” Another once-tall but now rather stooped former blond waved from down the bar. “I did tell you that you were likely to get roped into serving again.”

“You’re not supposed to warn them, Marc,” Adamski said. “Scares ‘em off. That said, I could use a Vice Commander. None of these other jackasses will do it.”

“Are you that bad a CO?” Khalil joked.

“I’m the only sucker who’ll do it, so they’re stuck with me, no matter how bad I am,” Adamski replied wryly. “How about it?”

“No election or anything?”

“Well, as this is the usual crowd of dues payers, we’ll ask them. Boys?” Adamski said to the group, “all in favor of Colonel Cahill as Vice Commander say ‘aye.’”

A chorus of _ayes_ and Khalil was in.

He wrote a check for his dues, which he handed over to Halla, and bought his new comrades a round at the bar, settling in for a night of stories and the good grilling he’d known he’d be facing. It felt a bit like a homecoming, foxhole camaraderie being what it was. The swapping of stories among military people was the same wherever one went; only the locations of service changed. That said, service people, especially those who’d been drafted, were as different as any other group. Adamski, Marc, and Khalil were the only lifers in the room, and Adamski the only academy grad, in his case the Air Force Academy. He’d flown bombers during ‘Nam and then been a commercial pilot when he’d retired, and was a stakeholder in the the aviation group Adi flew for. The rest had been draftees who’d re-upped once or twice, except for the Iraq vets, who’d volunteered after 9/11. Both of them were still in the Reserves. They were all local people except for Khalil and Adamski, who’d been stationed at the base for a while and decided to retire in the area.

“Hey,” one of the regulars, Jim Olsen, said to Khalil a little later, “Can I buy you a beer at some point for cleaning Jeff Robinson’s clock for him? I heard you broke his knee and wrecked his shoulder and he’s going to jail for it. And a couple of his buddies too. That asshole and his pals have been nothing but an abscess on the ass of this town for the last ten years. Him and his stupid militia.” Khalil could hear the air quotes around _militia_. “Heard you rescued one of his dogs, too.”

“You took in the Kenner kid, too, didn’t you?” Adamski said.

“Not such a kid,” Khalil said, wanting to get that clear right away. “Turns out he’s 21, this last September, so his birth certificate says. We found out in the process of getting him re-inserted into civilization.”

“He’s a smart little shit, so my wife says,” Duke Newsome added.

“Your wife’s the librarian, right?” Khalil said, still marveling at the web of connections in a small town like this. Duke nodded. “Ben talks about her all the time. And he is a smart little bastard. He’s going off to college for architecture soon and he’s pretty sure that’s your wife’s fault, Duke, for getting that _Architectural Digest_ subscription for the library. Tell her that, would you?”

“I will,” Duke said, smiling. “It’ll tickle the hell out of her.”

“And tell her we’ll be in to see her sometime soon.”

“Marc here says he’s not the first kid you’ve taken in. Calls you an interfering do-gooder,” Pete Dahl, one of the Iraq vets, added with a grin.

“Guilty as charged,” Khalil admitted, sending Marc a Look of Death. “I sent a few kids to Bethesda from a little village to get prosthetics, then had a school set up for them. One of the girls who’d lost a leg was an orphan and I tried to adopt her but there were too many obstacles with my job and being single. So I sent her to school too for as far as she could go. She’s finishing up her last term of a Ph.D. at the London School of Economics. She came out for Christmas break.”

“Ah, that’s the young lady we saw you riding around with, then.”

“That was Manizha,” Khalil confirmed. “Best investment I ever made. She’s going to do amazing things.”

The talk went on quite late, past the usual closing hours for the canteen, and there wasn’t any business in it, which was fine with Khalil. The socializing was just as important at this point as planning was, probably more so, and Khalil was enjoying himself. So far he’d liked everyone he’d met, even “that freeloader Marc,” he said as they were saying their good nights. But before they packed up for the night, Adamski and Halla invited him to breakfast at one of the local diners Friday morning to discuss the plans they’d like to put into play. Khalil accepted happily.

Ben had come back from his game night long before Khalil got home, but was still bouncing off the walls when he came in.

“I take it you enjoyed yourself, boyo,” Khalil said, shucking his coat and boots. It was past his usual bedtime, but he had a warm glow from the evening that he wasn’t eager to dismiss.

“Yeah, it was awesome. Really fun game. But the best part was being with the Nikkaris and feeling like I belonged there.”

“Was it a video game?” Khalil asked, sitting himself down on the couch and inviting Ben to join him.

Ben flung himself down, but couldn’t seem to settle and soon bounced back up again to pace the room. Khalil watched him with amusement.

“No, just a board game, but a really cool one. A world-building board game, so we had to cooperate to survive. But it was just so good to be part of that with people I liked, and who liked me. They’ve been doing this for years and Tom told me they’d always invited me and my folks, but my father’s such an asshole he never told us, and he probably wouldn’t have let me go either.”

“Ah, another ‘raised by wolves’ discovery.”

“Yeah, basically. I’m going to miss that too, when I go away.”

“Maybe you should start one yourself, then,” Khalil said. “When you get settled in the new place.”

Ben looked like he’d been hit with a brick between the eyes. “Oh, duuuuh! Why do I not think of these things?”

“Because your early life wasn’t about connecting with people, love. It’s a new skill for you. Keep working at it. It’ll become second nature eventually. You’re innately a friendly person, like me.”

“Speaking of which, how’d your evening go?” Ben asked, and sat back down beside him, snuggling up with his feet drawn up on the couch.

“About like yours, I imagine, only I got grilled quite a bit because I was the New Guy. Marc was right, it’s a small, cash-starved post. I joined up and immediately got drafted to be an officer, as they’ve only got two. But they’re good guys, mostly a bit older than Marc and I. We need some younger folks, and some women. I met Mrs. Newsome’s husband, Duke. He’s going to tell her about you going to college for architecture, which means you’d better get your arse over to the library to see her. The other two officers and I are having breakfast on Friday to start talking about what they’d like to accomplish.”

Ben looked surprised. “That didn’t take long.”

“Money greases the wheels, my lad,” Khalil said sadly. “Sometimes I wonder if that’s the only reason people tolerate my presence.”

Ben got up on his knees and swung himself into Khalil’s lap, framing his face with both hands. “If you lost everything tomorrow, I would still love you, and so would Adi and Marc, at the very least. You’re not buying anything from any of us. We’re giving it freely, because you deserve it.”

Khalil’s arms went around Ben’s waist. “And what makes me so deserving of a gift like you?” he said, and nuzzled Ben’s neck.

“Khalil, I took a fucking potshot at you before we’d even met, if you remember. Five minutes later, you were calling me ‘sir’ and offering me a goddamn job, a lifeline. Something we both knew was a lifeline. You didn’t have to do any of that. You could have had Marc lock me up or kick my ass off the property and let me walk into the river and been done with me. Marc says your default setting is friendly, but he’s wrong. Your default setting is love. You love everybody, even the assholes. You could have really hurt Jeff Robinson like he wanted to hurt you, but you didn’t. When you do want to hurt people, it’s because they’ve hurt someone you love. Other people recognize that in you and can’t help loving you back.”

Khalil sat back to look at Ben with something like astonishment on his face. “What?” Ben said. “Look, my shrink pointed out to me that I have some pretty finely tuned people radar, thanks to the craziness of my childhood and the survival instincts I developed living with an unstable, unpredictable person who would beat me one minute and pat me on the head the next. I’m learning to trust that I’m actually a good judge of character and motivations, despite what I was told all my life. Even my dad, he doesn’t ping _evil_ anymore. He pings _unbalanced_ and _untrustworthy._ You have never, ever pinged anything but _good,_ you and Adi and Marc. Ever. I can’t imagine you ever would. I don’t think you’re capable of it, any of you.”

Khalil rested his forehead against Ben’s. “You are an amazing young man. You know that, Benjamin Kenner? To come through the fire you did and turn out this way—wise and warm and loving and self-aware—is miraculous. Then to offer that to me? Do you know how lucky I feel waking up next to you? Knowing you? Learning from you?”

Ben kissed him tenderly. “We’re both lucky. We’re good for each other.”

After breakfast the next morning, Ben stepped into his boots and reached for his coat. “Hey, I’m going to see Mrs. Newsome. Want to come? I’m sure she’d like to meet you and give you a library card,” he said and winked.

“Sure,” Khalil said. “Buddy needs more chow, so we can take the tank if you want.”

“Sounds good.”

The library was one in a line of municipal buildings on Pine Street, one block back from the main drag: fire station, EMT garage, “cop shop,” as Ben called it, township hall, and the library at the far end. A good-sized two story brick building with a pitched roof probably built some time in the 1960s with federal money generously shared by the base, it had a large parking lot that was half full on a Thursday morning, which surprised Khalil.

“Lots of readers in this town.”

Ben grinned at him. “Two words: Long. Winter. And lots of retired people.”

“Ah, right. Of course.”

“Hoo boy,” Ben said, climbing out of the tank after they’d parked and shaking himself out, “I hope I don’t get an earful from Mrs. Newsome for not coming to see her earlier.”

“She kind of formidable?”

“You tell me, after you meet her,” Ben said.

He opened the outside double door, held it for Khalil, then opened the interior door when he’d come inside and shut the other behind him. “Drafts,” he murmured. “No drafts.”

From this, Khalil concluded Mrs. Newsome was a holy terror.

Mrs. Newsome was, in fact, a tall, slender, older woman with a cap of short silver hair and the carriage of a four-star general. She was standing behind a counter when they entered and she gave Ben such a look that Khalil half expected her to vault over it to chase him down and grab him by the ear before he could escape. Instead, she moved from behind it with a stately grace and a frown of—displeasure? Concern? Something. Khalil wasn’t sure, but it was almost enough to make him back up a step or two. He’d met village matriarchs with that vibe, and you did not fuck with them because they would have your balls for breakfast. Ben stood his ground as she bore down on him and then engulfed him in a hug. Surprised, he hugged her back.

“Benjamin Kenner,” she said softly but with a sternness only librarians can manage in that voice. “Where have you been?”

Khalil was impressed that she’d gotten his new name right the first time. And then reminded himself that librarians knew everything. Even, or perhaps especially, small town librarians. So he was pretty sure she’d known what had happened to Ben.

“Uh, it’s kind of a long story, Mrs. Newsome. It ends well though,” Ben said softly.

“Then you must tell me,” she said, and motioned to a younger woman pushing a cart full of books. “Sarah, please take the desk until I get back.” The younger woman peeked around her, saw Ben and waved. “Sure, Mrs. Newsome. Good to see you again, O-Ben,” she said and U-turned her cart toward the counter.

“This way, please. And bring your friend,” Mrs. Newsome said, and grasped Ben by the elbow, steering him to a door behind the stacks that proved to be a small, windowless study room with a table and four chairs. Khalil had the distinct sensation of being led to a court martial interrogation room.

She opened the door herself and sailed inside, assuming Ben and Khalil would follow, and they did, Khalil closing the door softly behind him. She turned then and held Ben at arm’s length, searching his face and giving the rest of him beneath his unzipped coat a close look. “You look well,” she said thoughtfully. “In fact, you look better than I’ve ever seen you look, Benjamin. You’re well, then?”

He nodded. “Very. It was a rough couple of years after my folks left me—”

The look on Mrs. Newsome’s face could have frozen hydrogen. “That devil did abandon you, then. Duke—Mr. Newsome—and I looked for you, several times, Benjamin. Where were you?”

“Hiding,” he said. “I didn’t want to end up in foster care. I built up one of the outbuildings and was living there, had been living there, when Khalil showed up. Let me introduce you. Khalil Cahill, this is Mrs. Joanne Newsome, the county librarian and major influence on my life.”

Khalil stepped forward and shook her hand gently, mindful of her knobby fingers. “Ma’am. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Ben’s told me how much you helped him. Thank you.”

“Not enough, if he was living wild and alone for two years,” she said regretfully. “But it’s a pleasure to meet you, finally, Colonel Cahill.”

“Just Kal, please, Ma’am,” he said. “I’m long retired from the service.”

“Then I’m Jo, Kal,” she said with a smile. Ben all but gawked at that, and Khalil presumed that either the informality or the smile was a first. “Have a seat, please, you two. I want to hear everything,” she finished.

Ben gave her an encapsulated version of the story, omitting the potshot but including Adi and Marc and his GED and SATs, and ending with, “I’m applying in the spring to architecture schools, thanks to you. You have no idea how influential that subscription to _Architectural Digest_ was. Not to mention all the books you loaned me about buildings and houses and city planning.”

“That’s so wonderful, Benjamin.” She seemed truly excited for him. “We must see if we can get you scholarships. You shouldn’t be burdened like so many are with student debt when you come out.”

Khalil could see she’d already begun to plot when Ben said, “I think that’s been taken care of, Mrs. Newsome. Khalil’s offered to put me through school.”

The gaze she turned on him was everything Khalil had dreaded when he started down this path with Ben. Joanne Newsome was no one’s fool and he saw very well what she was thinking of him in that moment. It was Ben who derailed it, which was just as well, because Khalil knew nothing he could say would do so.

“Stop right there,” he said. “I know exactly what you’re thinking, and you’re wrong, Joanne,” he said, using her given name as though speaking to an equal. It shocked her for a moment but it also made her listen to him. “I know you’ve seen that rainbow flag on the back of Khalil’s SUV, and that you know what it means, and right now you’re thinking the worst: older man grooms young, desperate kid to abuse for the price of his college tuition. Or that I’m exploiting a lonely older man for the same thing. Right?”

She pressed her lips together and glared first at Khalil and then at Ben, who glared right back, much to her apparent surprise.

Ben not only glared right back, but never took his eyes from hers. His voice was calm but firm, the way he’d sounded with Jeff Robinson, that day in their driveway: utterly confident of his words, knowing he was right. “I’m disappointed that you think I would whore myself out to anyone for anything. I’m disappointed and surprised that you think so little of my ability to take care of myself and make my own decisions at the age of 21. You told me once I was an old soul, and way too mature for my actual age, and you were right. I grew up hard and fast, living with someone who was mentally ill, violent, and unpredictable, and figured out early that if I didn’t take care of myself, my parents sure weren’t going to. I learned everything I could about survival before they threw me away because I was queer. That was why I didn’t want to go into foster care. You know as well as I do what can happen to queer kids in foster care. I had had enough shit—excuse my French—happen to me already. I wasn’t risking that. When Khalil showed up, I thought he was the county caseworker and I took a potshot at him to scare him off. Tell Mrs. Newsome what you did, Khalil.”

“Once Sheriff Winston explained who Ben was,” Khalil said in an equally calm voice, “I offered to pay Ben for caretaking duties from the closing date on the house at least through the time I finally moved in, while I was in Dublin tying up loose ends to move here. I was hoping he’d move into the main house for the winter at least, while I was gone. I was afraid he’d freeze to death.”

Ben turned back to her. “Khalil gave me a lifeline and asked nothing, _nothing_ in return. Do you understand? He took me in when he didn’t have to. He offered me honorable, paid work—and paid me well. He and his friends, one of whom is the sheriff of this county, got me on my feet and did more for me than my parents ever did. Khalil and Marc and Adi taught me how to be an adult in this civilization—taught me about bank accounts, taxes, birth certificates, driver’s licenses, ATM cards, car loans—and Khalil taught me to stop hating myself for being queer. Don’t you dare think that he’s exploiting me, or that I’m whoring myself out to him, Joanne. Don’t. You. Dare.”

Mrs. Newsome had looked Ben in the eye the whole time he spoke to her, but she looked away now. She clenched her hands together and bit her lips, then looked up at Khalil again, frowning. “I—I owe you an apology, sir,” she said. “You and Benjamin both. If I suspected the worst, it’s only because I know what the world is like, and I have never wanted to see this boy—this young man—hurt any more than he already has been. But it seems as if I should be thanking you for helping Benjamin, not assuming you’re taking advantage of him, Colonel Cahill.”

“Apology accept, Mrs. Newsome,” Khalil said quietly and with an inward sigh of relief. “It’s an easy assumption to make, precisely because the world is as it is. I saw a lot of child trafficking in my travels and nothing is more sickening. If it’s any comfort, Ben’s not a very exploitable young man. He knows his own mind better than some people I know who are much older and he’s not easily moved. And quite honestly, if I tried something like that, Sheriff Winston would kick my backside from here back to Dublin and I’d never be able to set foot in this country or sit down again.”

She laughed a little at that, and reached out a hand to Ben, who took it with a smile and squeezed. Both their smiles turned a little watery. “I’m sorry, Benjamin. I should know you better. I’m just so glad to see you’re all right. I really was worried about you. Many of us were.”

“I know. I did my best not to be found. It’s just dumb luck it was Khalil and Marc who did the finding. I’ve been so incredibly lucky since then. But I could use a little more help from you now. Would you write me a recommendation letter for school?”

She laughed then, still a little watery, but much happier. “Of course I will, Benjamin. Of course I will.

“And please, come to dinner before you do,” Khalil added. “You and Duke. We’d love to have you.”

“This is how he gets on people’s good side,” Ben said with a wink. “He feeds them.”

“Thank you,” she said. “We’ll do that. Call me tomorrow and we’ll arrange it.”

“It’s a deal,” Khalil said. “And I’m wondering if I might get a library card from you?”

When they were outside again, after Khalil had been issued his card and Ben had his renewed, Ben thumped his head against the passenger door of the tank and let out a big gust of air. “Holy crap. I hope I never have to go through anything like that again. That was worse than having to tell Jeff Robinson to fuck right off.”

“That’s because you care about what she thinks of you,” Khalil replied, getting into the SUV and hitting the starter to get the heat going. Ben joined him inside a moment later.

“Yeah, you’re right, I do,” he said. “I was kinda hoping you’d chime in there.”

“Nope,” Khalil said, shaking his head. “No way. First of all, you were doing just fine on your own, and secondly, she wouldn’t have believed me anyway. That had to come from you, not me. And the only reason she believed you is that you didn’t plead with her. You were very dignified. And it was a mostly factual argument. You also sounded very much like the adult you are.”

Ben thought about that. “Yeah, I guess so. I’m beginning to understand what you meant when you said there were obstacles in our relationship. That Look of Death she gave you, that was worse than one of Marc’s.”

“I admit I shriveled up a bit at that. She’s a holy terror, but in a good, protective way. That was really well done though, Ben. Masterful, even. Seriously, there are guys I worked with who wouldn’t have negotiated that to a win and kept her not just as an ally but a friend. You’ve got a knack for that. I’m going to start calling you The Negotiator and sic you on our ISP.”

“Yeah, I don’t give a fuck what they think of me, though.”

“Exactly,” Khalil responded with an evil grin.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plans and preparations proceed apace--with some glitches.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I goofed and didn't give Ben enough time to apply for school this year. All that research and I kept thinking the deadlines for applications were April, not December. You can tell I don't have kids in college, or even heading for it, and it's been *mumble mumble* since I went.

Khalil’s meeting with Eric Halla and Will Adamski had its own fraught moments as well, which Khalil had also expected. He and these men were different generations, and had served in different armed forces in very different wars, with different homecoming experiences. Vietnam vets, most conscripted and forced to serve in a very unpopular war, had met with rejection, stereotyping, vilification, and a lack of support services when they returned. Most of them had been poor, and/or minorities. They had had to fight as a group for disability benefits, the recognition of PTSD as a legitimate condition, as well as acknowledgement from their own government that they’d been poisoned by Dow Chemical’s Agent Orange defoliants, something that affected not just them, but their children and grandchildren. Khalil didn’t know too many of that generation who weren’t at least a little bitter about their service. Adamski was the rare exception, but that was not surprising in an academy grad who’d seen most of that war from the air.

This post was poor and sparsely supported enough that they’d fallen behind on their national dues and were just barely maintaining their building and the canteen. The lack of officers and members was hurting them more than anything.

“From what I’ve seen and Marc tells me of the local population, this ought to be one of the larger posts in the area,” Khalil said over his eggs. “What do you think is keeping people from joining up?”

“Well,” Adamski said slowly, “if I had a good answer for that, we probably wouldn’t be where we are now. I know the post a couple towns over draws a lot from our area. This one has had such a gradual decline that I’m not sure where we went wrong.”

“Come on, Will,” Halla said. “You know it’s because it’s full of old, tired guys like us. It’s shabby and run down and all we do is sit around and bitch and drink.”

“So it’s a chicken and egg problem, no pun intended,” Khalil said, with a nod to their plates. “What do you think could change that?”

“A better space, for one,” Adamski said. “Some community outreach. I’d like us to be able to do more to help feed some of the vets and other folks up here. Deliver hot meals, at least on the holidays and or when somebody’s homebound from an injury, or snowed in. Set up a food pantry. Have a meal at the hall for the people without families on the holidays. Lots of folks living on disability up here.”

“Do they have someone to ferry them to doctor or therapy appointments?” Khalil asked. “I know it’s a slog getting over to the VA from here, especially in the winter. I’m driving it once a week right now and I’d be more than happy to have a couple of passengers. Ben usually drives me over, so there’s always a driver who’s got his head on straight.”

“We could do that if we had a van for the post. I’m sure we could get volunteers to do the driving, and coordinate with the hospital on appointments,” Adamski said thoughtfully.

“We could also pay a driver. Create a little work for a vet on disability with a good driving record and a lot of patience. Grow it into a regular shuttle service as the membership grows.”

Adamski nodded. “Good idea.”

“So, to start: food and meals, a van and driver, upgrade the facilities.” Khalil had a notebook out and was making his usual list.

“All impossible on our so-called budget,” Halla said glumly.

“Not now,” Khalil said. “I know there are grants for this kind of post development from the VFW, and I can probably find us someone who knows how to get them for us. But I’m also willing to jumpstart us. We’ll have to pay our arrears first, to get them, and I’ll take care of that. VFW halls are important resources for local people and should be a place where vets can come and find their own community: hang out, swap stories, go to an AA or NA meeting, start a therapy group, play a few rounds of pool or a video game, have a beer, find information on benefits and resources for themselves and their families, get help looking for jobs or schooling, and learn to be civilians again.” Halla and Adamski were nodding along with him. “I’ve been thinking about this since I moved here, and went looking for a counselor myself, to deal with my PTSD. It would also be great to have something closer that folks around here could go to for that, as well.”

Adamski made a face and Halla winced. Khalil braced for a response he was all too familiar with, especially from this generation of soldier and older.

“That’s just coddling people—”

Khalil held up a hand and Adamski went silent. “With all due respect, Major, do you like your nightmares?”

“My nightmares?”

“You said Tet gave you nightmares. Or was that just figurative?”

“No. No, I still dream about it, but—”

“Do you enjoy that? Because I know I don’t enjoy waking up in the middle of the night hoarse from screaming and my body feeling like everything the Taliban did to me over a week’s time had just been done again. And I didn’t enjoy the flashback I had on the Fourth of July when my otherwise very thoughtful neighbors set off M80s and made me think I was back in Syria in the middle of a Russian bombing run that my boyfriend burned alive in. That’s a half hour of my life I’ll never get back again, and it wasn’t fun. Now, I don’t know what your experiences were, but I’m certainly not going to disrespect you by belittling the magnitude of them, or the well-documented psychological reaction you may experience as a result. I’m sure you know we used to execute soldiers suffering from shell shock.”

Adamski tried to bluster through it. “Because they wouldn’t obey orders—”

“They _couldn’t_ obey orders,” Khalil replied. He was trying to keep his cool, but this was an argument he’d had often with stubborn old fools like this one, and he was tired of it. It was a stupid attitude in this century and it hurt a lot of people. “They were suffering from a mental illness that’s now—”

“So you’re suffering from a mental illness, Colonel?” Adamski broke in sarcastically.

“Yes,” Khalil said, and Adamski froze. Khalil suddenly realized the other man was afraid he was, too. And he heard Ben’s voice in his head saying, _your default setting is love._ That drained all the anger out of him. “Yes, I am,” he repeated. He could have been agreeing it was cold outside in the tone of voice he used. “But it’s temporary, and treatable. I’m better now for six months of counselling than I’ve been in years, even though some of this happened more than a decade ago. It’s never too late to deal with it.” Khalil leaned back in his seat and took a sip from his mug. The contents were reminiscent of all the bad coffee he’d ever had in the Army. “We ought to be able to offer that to our fellow vets, here. Nobody should have to suffer that alone, without the opportunity to get well. And they shouldn’t have to drive three hours to get it.” Khalil grabbed his coat and scooted out of his side of the booth. “Excuse me, gents. I’m going to go have a quick smoke.”

He slipped into his coat and zipped up before going outside. He’d quit smoking years ago, but he always kept a pack on him as a break excuse during situations like this, and to remind himself why he’d quit. He lit one up now from the pack that had been living inside his coat since winter started, and stood outside with this other hand in his pocket. After a couple of minutes, Halla came out and lit up one of his own.

“I’m not sure whether to apologize or thank you, Colonel,” he said. “That’s something Will’s needed to hear for a long time, from somebody who outranked him and that he had some respect for. He was shot down near Khe Sahn during Tet and lost most of his crew. That’s haunted him for as long as I’ve known him.” Halla took another drag, blowing the smoke out of his nose. “I want you to know I’ll back you all the way on whatever you suggest as far as counselling facilities here. A good friend of mine ate his service piece some years ago because there wasn’t anyplace for him to go.”

“I’m sorry. I’ve seen that happen too often, too. I wish people understood you’re a hell of a lot stronger for facing what’s eating you than pretending nothing is.”

Halla nodded. “Me too. I hope that got through to Will this time. I’ve been trying for years, but I was just a grunt. He needed to hear that from a fellow officer. And coming from somebody who’s been in Special Forces doesn’t hurt either.”

Khalil smiled wryly, letting the cigarette burn in his hand. “Academy types can be funny that way. I learned pretty quickly that if you don’t pay attention to your enlisted people, nothing’s going to go right. And never piss off the supply clerk.”

Halla laughed. “Amen, brother.”

Khalil gave his cigarette a look of disgust and ground it out beneath his foot. “Damn, those things are foul when you don’t smoke them all the time.”

“Yeah, I keep trying to quit.”

“You’ll do it when you’re ready,” Khalil said. “Speaking of ready, do you think Will’s had enough time to stew?”

“Yeah, don’t give him too long or he’ll slide right into self-righteous.”

“Got it. Thanks for the warning. Let me go in first, so we can preserve his dignity.”

Adamski was clutching his coffee mug when Khalil made his way back inside, hung up his coat and sat down again. He looked up at Khalil with a face not dissimilar to the one Mrs. Newsome had given him yesterday before she apologized.

“I haven’t had anybody give me a dressing-down like that in quite a while,” he said. “I suppose I was due for it. Eric’s been on my ass about seeing somebody pretty much since I’ve known him.”

“It’s a tough step to take, and it gets harder,” Khalil acknowledged. “The work is hard and there are weeks of misery sometimes, dredging up the old shite. But when you get through the other side of that, it’s worth every miserable moment to feel free and functional again. But that’s also why it’s good to have a community that supports you in doing that work. Ben and I support each other, and the guys I go to group therapy with once a month support each other too. It shouldn’t be lonely work. But there’s a method to my madness too,” Khalil said, with a grin, purposefully shifting gears to not let Adamski wallow for too long. “If we build a center next door to the VFW hall, it gives cover to the folks who are coming for counseling who are a little shy about other people knowing that.”

“I like that,” Halla said, hanging up his own coat and sitting down next to Adamski again. “It also gets them in the vicinity. They might drop in for coffee afterwards, or to shoot some pool or something. And if they know we’ve sponsored it, they’re more like to come in and join up. More dues payers and active members.”

“Exactly,” Khalil agreed. “As far as the other projects go, let’s cost them out and I’ll see if we can get started on any of them soonish. I’ll look for someone to help us with grants. Ben could probably help with the building projects, but he’d want to meet with you about what you need and want.”

“This is the Kenner kid, right?” Adamski said. “I heard you’re sending him to architecture school.”

“I am,” Khalil said. “He’s got a talent for it. He’s already designed a couple of additions to the house that will be going up in the spring.”

“He still living there?” Halla asked.

“That’s his home,” Khalil affirmed, taking a page from Ben.

“I suppose you’re going to want to invite the women and gays, too,” Adamski said, looking a little sour about it.

Khalil sighed inwardly. No wonder this post was dead in the water. “Be All That You Can Be but don’t be gay or a woman, huh? Considering I’m one of those, I’d like to not be an army of one, and as your vice commander, it would be pretty hypocritical of me to try to keep them out. It’s not like gays and women are a new thing in the armed forces, Will. We wouldn’t have needed a ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ rule if we were. And as my friend Adi pointed out the other day, it’s not like women have ever _not_ been in combat. If you’re driving a supply vehicle, tending the wounded, or delivering planes to their bases, you’re just as likely to see action as not. The Russians had the Night Witches in World War II, and you know the Vietcong forces were full of women fighting side by side with the men. The women I served with were every bit as qualified to be in combat as any of the men, and sometimes tougher and fiercer, frankly. And who a person prefers in their bed has no bearing on any of that either, unless we make it matter. We made being gay a security risk by stigmatizing it. It’s a new century, guys, and the armed forces are different now, more inclusive and openly so. They’ve had to be. We need to be too.”

“No, you’re right, you’re right. No offense meant. This is why I needed a Vice Commander, clearly,” Adamski said. “To shake me out of my rigor mortis.” He stuck his hand out. “Thanks for doing that, Colonel. And thanks for your help. I’m looking forward to having more of my backwards ideas shaken loose and shown the door.”

“I’m looking forward to us having a thriving post,” Khalil replied and shook Adamski’s hand.

“Welcome aboard, Colonel,” Halla said, offering his hand with a wink Adamski couldn’t see. Khalil grinned and shook his hand as well.

“Breakfast is on me, fellas,” Khalil said and swept up the check.

So Ben was busy for the next couple of weeks in meetings with Halla and Adamski, and holed up in his studio producing plans and drawings. Khalil didn’t see much of him during the day, except at breakfast, and when he took Ben lunch or called him down for dinner. He was asleep himself by the time Ben crawled into bed and Ben still asleep from his late nights when Khalil got up.

“Is it nosy if I ask how it’s going?” Khalil said one morning as Ben clutched his coffee mug.

“What? No. These are your projects too,” he said, yawning. “The plans I’d already drawn up just needed a bit of tinkering for the main hall. I was thinking of making the counseling center an extension of that though, or at least connected to it. You said some folks are kind of gun shy about admitting they’re getting therapy, so I thought they could go in through the main hall and over to the counseling center that way, if they wanted to, instead of going in the front door. That gets them inside the building too, but not near the canteen so they don’t get distracted. That’s at the other side of the building now, behind a door, instead of the main space you walk into.”

“Let’s connect them, but make them separate, I think. The hours will be different and the purposes certainly are. But that’s a good idea to have access from the main hall. What do you walk into on your plans, instead of the canteen?”

“A lobby with a display case, community notices, a floorplan showing where everything is, a couple of comfy chairs to wait for the shuttle in. Offices and a community computer room to the left, down the hall that would lead to the counseling center, canteen and game room entrance on the right. Restrooms, kitchen, and meeting rooms/dining hall through another short hallway and door straight ahead. That’ll be big enough to rent out for parties instead of the dinky thing it is now. That’ll get you an income stream too.”

“Whose idea was that? That’s great.”

“Eric’s, as a matter of fact. It’s brilliant. There’s not much party space around here. If we do it up right, it’ll be suitable for wedding receptions, even, for folks who can’t afford something really fancy at one of the resorts. And it’ll be a cheery place for holiday meals.”

“That sounds great, love.”

“Thanks. The counseling center is just about done. It’ll be a similar layout to the one I go to in town, but a little bigger, with a couple more spaces for offices and clients. I really want to work on the interior for that one though. I’d like to put in a skylight, steeply pitched so the snow slides off it, over the group therapy room, just to let in as much light as possible The engineering part of that is keeping me up at night. I probably should have asked you first, too. It ain’t gonna be cheap.”

“Sounds fantastic. Show me the drawings for it when they’re ready. Do you want to show it to a professional and get some advice? I can pay for their time.”

“It’ll have to pass building code approvals anyway, and I don’t know enough to do that—and I’m not qualified, no matter how brilliant you think I am,” Ben reminded him with a grin. “It’s not like building a garage or a shed. You’ll have to get somebody licensed and certified to finish it, and you’ll have to do that with the plans for the guest house and bath house too, to make it all legal.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” Khalil admitted. “Good thing you did. Guess we’d better find somebody to consult. Got anybody in mind?”

“Yeah, I do. I’d been thinking about applying to work at this guy’s firm as an intern for a while anyway. I like the work he’s doing. I’ll give him a call and see if we can meet with him. You should come along too, since you’re the paying client.”

Khalil nodded. “Sounds like you’re already on top of things. Keep me posted. How’s the rest of the portfolio?”

“I dunno, truthfully. I’ve got a lot of stuff, but—I just.” Ben waved a hand and looked upset. “I’m starting to write up applications too and it’s making me nervous as hell. There are essays and I have no idea what the fuck I’m doing. I’m going to have to ask Mrs. Newsome for some help.”

“You know that’s half the battle, right? Knowing when to ask for help.”

Ben smiled a little sourly. “Yeah, I’m figuring that out. Yay, therapy.” He looked down at his coffee cup then and made a face. “I, uh, I’ve got a confession to make though. I let the application dates for most of the places I was looking at get away from me and it’s too late for admission next year. The place I really want to go in Boston has rolling admissions, so it doesn’t matter so much. But that’s an eggs in one basket thing. I may not get accepted there. I’ve been kind of afraid to tell you.”

Khalil looked mystified. “Why? Did you think I’d be angry or something?”

“Well, not angry, probably, but disappointed. And it’s going to look weird now that you’ve told everyone I’m going off to school.”

“You’re still planning on going, right?”

“Yeah, of course! I’m just getting a really late start. I was already almost three years behind before, thanks to my old man lying to me. Not that he’d have sent me to college, but maybe I’d have gotten out when I turned 18, instead of living rough for two years thinking I was avoiding foster care.”

Khalil put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “Listen, boyo, you’re just doing this at your own pace. _When_ you do it is less important than _that_ you do it. Life isn’t as linear as everybody would like you to think it is. And maybe this is for the better. You’ll have a kick-ass portfolio and maybe an internship experience under your belt when you do apply. Finish this up at your own pace and apply when you’re ready. In the meanwhile, I get to spend more time with you, so I’m a little selfishly glad that you won’t be flying off out of here in the fall. I trust you to know when you’re ready, and have the courage to do what needs to be done.”

“Now it sounds like you’re making excuses for me,” Ben grumbled.

Khalil was silent for a moment, testing that idea. “No, I don’t think so. You might be being too hard on yourself though. Sometimes we don’t do things because our subconscious knows we’re not ready. I know you’re excited about college and eager to start. But do you feel ready to leave here in September and be off on your own again?”

Ben crumpled then, putting his face in his hands. “No,” he said, voice muffled but with a distinct catch in it.

Khalil brushed his fingers through Ben’s hair. It was getting long now, more than a year later, and was still soft as silk, darkening to red gold in the winter lack of sun. “That’s okay, my lad,” Khalil said gently. “You’ve had a year of whirlwind changes and two very rough ones before it, not to mention a childhood that would have wrecked anyone without your stubborn fortitude. Give yourself time to heal and think and grow into yourself. You’ll be ready whenever you are. And that’s fine.”

Ben took a deep breath and dropped his hands. A few tears had escaped and he wiped them away with the back of his hand, taking a couple more deep breaths to pull himself back together. Khalil continued to run his hand through Ben’s hair, then leaned forward and kissed his temple. “It’s all right, boyo. You’re doing great.”

Ben gave a watery laugh. “Yeah, you know, I forget it’s only been a little more than a year since I met you. So much has happened, and so much has changed, and at the same time, so little has. There’s a part of me that really wants to go, is really anxious to get out of here and _get away_ , and a part of me that’s like, _running doesn’t help_ and is also terrified that I can’t do this. I’m still this fucked-up kid inside, trying to be a together adult.”

Khalil laughed a little. “That’s pretty much what all of us are, Ben. That’s the big secret of adulthood. Sorry.”

“Well, shit. That’s disappointing.” He made a horrified face.

Khalil ruffled his hair. “You’ll get over it. Seriously though, I was a little worried you were doing this a bit too fast, and not giving yourself enough time to process the changes in your life. I’m glad you came to that conclusion by yourself.”

Ben looked confused. “But you didn’t say anything.”

“One of the joys of adulthood is getting to make your own decisions and your own mistakes, Ben. If it had gone to shit, I’d have been here for you, and if you’d asked for advice, I’d have talked it over with you. I’ve got no business running your life for you, though. You’ve got a perfectly good shrink and had sense enough to find her for yourself, so I trust your instincts. You should too.”

Ben let out another deep breath and leaned on the counter. “Easier said than done. But, god, I feel so much lighter all of a sudden. I was really worried about fucking this up and disappointing you.”

“Don’t worry, you’ll fuck up something else down the line to make up for it,” Khalil said drily. “We all do. Then you’ll have something new to feel bad about.”

“Oh har har!” Ben snarled. “Jesus, you’re cheery today.”

“Sorry, love,” Khalil said, though he didn’t look very contrite. “I’m doing a bad job of saying this is pretty typical for all of us. Two steps forward, one step back. Seriously, it’s okay. I’m not going to love you less if you fail at something. It’s not going to change my opinion of you, either. Whatever it is you’re doing, give it your best shot, learn from the mistakes and failures, and press on.”

“And what have you failed at, Colonel Cahill?” Ben said with a sardonic arched eyebrow.

Khalil laughed and shook his head. “Oh Christ and Allah, Ben, my first spectacular adult failure was joining the army. I’d never seen my parents so disappointed in me before and it was a real shocker. You’d have thought I’d murdered someone. And then I did, under the aegis and orders of the U.S. Government. It was everything they’d spent their lives working to prevent, people killing each other instead of talking their differences out. Then their well-brought-up, polite, very well-educated, multi-lingual, sensitive and mopey fair-haired boyo goes and joins the third largest army in the world. They were more pissed about that than anything I’ve done in my whole life. Took us years to get past that, much as they loved me. I couldn’t wear my uniform home to visit them. They wouldn’t let me in the house with it on the first time I showed up. They didn’t want to hear anything about what I was doing. When I joined Special Forces, I thought my father would never speak to me again.”

Ben gawked at him, mouth open and eyes wide. “You’re shitting me.”

“Not a word. I won’t say they were pacificists, but they believed deeply in the powers of diplomacy and communication, and they thought I’d betrayed everything they stood for. It took me years before I could explain to them that I was largely doing the same thing they had, but not with government officials. It wasn’t until I went to my father for help with adopting Manizha and had to explain the whole situation to him that he understood why I’d re-upped as many times as I had. Of course, he still tried to tell me I could do the same work with an NGO or through ‘official channels,’ but he was wrong about that. They haven’t the kind of authority you have with an army behind you and sometimes that’s what it takes to remove some of the local shits in power, especially in states full of corrupt officials. We disagreed until they died about where change is best instigated from. I still believe if it doesn’t start at the bottom, with the governed themselves, it’s likely to fail. I guess in the end, I really was American, became an American, in a way the two of them would never understand. And that’s because I spent 20 years in the army. My father would say I was indoctrinated.” Khalil shrugged. “He’s probably not wrong, but I don’t regret it.”

Ben’s jaw had dropped and stayed dropped as Khalil was talking. “Whoa,” he said finally. “I—shit, Khalil. That must have been hard. I didn’t imagine—I mean, you’ve always talked about your folks like you had a good relationship with them. Like they loved you.”

“They did. And we had a good relationship with each other as long as they could pretend their son didn’t wear a uniform and kill people for a living. We developed a polite method of interacting which involved never seeing me in uniform or acknowledging that I was an army officer. It was very British in some ways. I suspect Mama used to give Da hell after I’d gone for continuing it as long as they did. She was much more pragmatic than he was. I think once she got over the shock, she’d probably just said, ‘Well, that is that. _Mashallah_. Our son has joined the army.’ But the bloody Irish can keep a grudge going for centuries, even their diplomats. Da finally got over his snit when he retired. I think he was just keeping up appearances by then. We really did love each other very much.” Khalil reached over and cupped Ben’s face. “But I would never do that to you, boyo. You make your own path, whatever it is. No polite fictions between us. And I don’t get to put a stamp of approval on what you choose, even if you ask me.”

“No, no polite fictions, please,” Ben agreed.

“That means we don’t hide things from each other, either,” Khalil said. “If you’re worried about something, please talk to me. I’ll try my best to do the same.”

Ben nodded, looking determined. “You’re right. I should have said something earlier. It really just did get by me—”

“That wasn’t a criticism, love. That was just a general policy statement.”

“Policy statement, huh? That sounds like a house rule.”

10\. No polite fictions; no secrets (except about gifts).

Ben stopped working at the feverish pace he had been and was more relaxed now that he knew Khalil was all right with him not going off to school in the fall. When he’d gone as far on the building plans as he could himself, he called up the architect whose work he’d been following, explained his request, and made an appointment. Before they drove up to his office on the lake, Ben had his blue prints and elevations professionally printed to take with them.

David Salminen’s office was in a quirky woodframe structure on the lakeshore immediately reminiscent of the [iron ore docks](https://panethos.wordpress.com/2020/08/18/the-great-ore-docks-of-the-great-lakes-past-and-present/) in the harbor. The general shape of the front was a child’s drawing of a house—a square with a pitched roof—framed by heavy wooden beams and a tall false front of metal cladding that went to the peak of the roof, pierced by a hollow triangle where the attic would be, running front to back. The front was faced with glass brick where the drawing’s window would be, and clad in rust-streaked steel siding that looked like hull plating. The wood-shingled pitched roof was covered on one side with adjustable solar collection panels like the roof of their own house and there was a working windmill on the lake side of the building. The entrance was a steel door that looked like it had previously been a ship’s hatch but which rotated on gimbals at the midpoint with barely a touch. Ben fell in love with all of it and Khalil was intrigued.

Salminen, who stood about six feet tall, had been a redhead himself at one time but was now possessed of a head of curly, dark auburn hair with a gently receding hairline. He was ruddy and athletic and outgoing, and apparently glad to see them. Ben introduced himself and Khalil and explained what they’d done and what they needed. Salminen invited Ben to spread his blueprints out on the table in his workroom, and led them to a large open space with a view of the lake that included one of the ore docks he’d based the office on. Ben followed, looking nervous, but unrolled the blueprints for the counseling center, the VFW renovation, and Khalil’s guest and bath houses. Salminen studied them carefully, making unreadable noises, and laying the elevations of the various buildings out next to their blueprints. He stood up at last and frowned at Ben.

“You did these yourself?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” Ben replied. “I’ve been sketching buildings and plans for years. My father’s a builder and taught me the rudiments of drawing plans, and I’ve been studying on my own. I taught myself AutoCAD a while back so I could start putting together a portfolio for school applications. I can send you the files if you want them.”

“You haven’t even been to school yet?” Salminen said, surprised. “I thought you were at least a senior undergrad. These are very good. They need some tweaking to be up to code, but you knew that already, didn’t you? Of course, that’s why you’re here.”

“I could use some help with that skylight in the counseling building too. I don’t know enough about materials and stresses to put that together. Or how to keep the thing from leaking with the temperature changes.”

From there, the talk turned technical and Khalil couldn’t follow much of it. But evidently Ben could because he asked few questions and the ones he did ask were very technical in themselves. When they came up for air again, Salminen turned to Khalil and said, “I’d be very pleased to be part of these jobs, Mr. Cahill, but honestly, most of the work is done. Since Mr. Kenner—”

“Just Ben, please,” he broke in.

“Then I’m David, Ben. Since Ben’s not certified yet, my name will have to go on the filings and plans, but it won’t cost you much. I’ll send you an estimate for how long I think it will take to bring these up to code, and the cost of that and the permits, once Ben sends me his files. Ben’s got a good eye for materials and he clearly knows a thing or two about construction, but I can also recommend a contractor for you, if you’d like.”

“That sounds like just what we were hoping for,” Khalil confirmed. “I’m Kal, by the way. We’d like to get started on these as soon as the weather allows.”

“All of them?” Salminen seemed surprised.

“If I have to prioritize, I’d like to get the VFW renovation and the guest house done this summer. The bath house is the lowest priority.”

“Then I’ll see what I can do. You’ve picked a good time to book the builders, so you might be able to get all four done this summer.” He turned back to Ben. “Where are you applying to, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“My first choice is Boston Architectural College. Then I thought I’d try Cooper Union and Cornell.”

Salminen nodded. “All good schools. I’m a BAC grad myself. Why not MIT, too?”

“I’m kind of intimidated by MIT, truthfully. I’ve got a flakey education background—I was homeschooled and self-taught and just have a GRE—but my SAT scores are high. The portfolio is the thing that’s been giving me grief.”

“Why’s that?” Salminen asked, surprised. “This is really good work.”

“I’ve got no idea what to put in it,” Ben confessed, “and don’t know who to ask about it.”

“I could definitely help you out there, and I’d be happy to,” Salminen offered.

“That would be a huge help. Thanks,” Ben said gratefully. “Could you use an intern?”

Salminen frowned a little, but not unhappily. “Let me think about that for a bit. The office is pretty slow right now, and I couldn’t pay you much anyway—”

“That’s not an issue. I’d just be glad to get my feet wet, and I admire the work you’re doing with reclaimed materials and sustainable energy.”

“Thanks. I’ll get back to you about that, probably with your estimate. How’s that sound?”

“Just fine, thanks,” Ben agreed and put out a hand. “I’ll send the files over when I get back, so you don’t have to recreate the wheel.”

Salminen and Khalil shook as well. “I’m looking forward to working with you, Kal.”

“Likewise, David. Thanks for your help. We’ll be in touch then.”

Ben was practically bouncing as they left, and practically bouncing in his seat all the way home. Khalil was glad they’d taken the tank and he was driving, but it made him ridiculously happy to see Ben in this mood after the mopeyness of the last few days.

“Amazing what a little professional validation will do,” Khalil said, smiling at him, and Ben grinned at him.

“Oh man, I feel great,” he admitted. “Like BAC or maybe even MIT might not be out of reach.”

“Which would you prefer?”

Ben was silent for a while, looking out at the scenery but not seeing it. “I think BAC. MIT seems all about the big scope: urbanism, climate change, the scientific solution to problems of how people live. It’s not that I’m not interested in that, or don’t think it’s important, it’s just—everybody thinks about cities and big, dense buildings and _urban_ planning. Not many people think small towns are important enough to want to make better places to live. But there are the same problems of lack of affordable housing and energy usage that cities have, just on a smaller scale. And there’s more opportunity for working with the environment, rather than against it. BAC seems like a better fit for that kind of focus, although Cornell would probably be okay too, and I hear Ithaca is pretty cool and full of old hippies. You might like it too,” Ben said slyly.

Khalil refused to take the bait. “And Cooper Union? That’s a free school isn’t it?”

Ben shook his head. “Used to be, then they got some asshole president who mismanaged it and spent all their money on a starchitect building for his legacy. Now it’s $44k a year. That whole story kind of turned me off. I sort of don’t want to give them any money now, even if it’s not mine. Maybe especially then.”

“Christ and Allah,” Khalil swore, appalled. “Peter Cooper’s probably not stopped rotating in his grave. He’ll have bored down to the center of the earth by now. I hope they fired the asshole.”

“Yeah, but the damage is done,” Ben said glumly. “And this is why I have no desire to be a starchitect. I mean, Frank Gehry designs some really cool stuff, but it just feels self-indulgent to have a piece of art that’s that big instead of free education for generations of students. Every time I look at the crazy-ass buildings in Dubai, I get pissed off. People are starving and homeless and we’re building shit like that. I’d like to design beautiful everyday buildings that are useful—municipal architecture, schools, public spaces, museums, public and affordable housing developments, that kind of thing. Now that I’ve got a bit more time, I think I’ll look around some more for places that have sustainable design programs.”

“And maybe David can give you some advice about that, too, along with what to put in your portfolio.”

“Maybe. But it won’t hurt to have done my research beforehand.”

“No indeed,” Khalil agreed.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Khalil has a rough time adjusting to Up North winters. The boys learn to cope with it in various ways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This turned out totally different than I thought it would. For one thing, it's missing the hot sex I had planned. Saving that for later, I guess.

Khalil decided T.S. Eliot was full of shit.

It was February that was the cruelest month, not April. Long past the new year, Christmas lights taken down, no holiday celebrations in sight to break up the dark and tedium, and at least up here, precious little light at all, even though they were on the other side of the solstice and the days were supposedly getting longer. Supposedly. Except on the brightest of days, they had the lights on in the house because the slanting sun never reached them through the thick conifer forest. Khalil could not imagine how dark this house must have been at this time of year before it was opened up. He was glad for the fire, too, which seemed both a cheery comfort and a weapon against the dark. By the second week of the month, he was beginning to think about a small place in, say, New Mexico. Or southern Spain. Maybe Portugal. Or Italy. Tunisia, even. Somewhere with sun. Lots of it.

Ben seemed as lethargic as he was. They spent a lot of time on the couch, reading or streaming shows, legs tangled in the middle of it while they read or snoozed at either end, or cuddling in front of the fire with hot drinks of one sort or another as they watched TV. Ben discovered something called _The Curse of Oak Island_ on the History channel, which they watched together like they were watching a train wreck: equally horrified and fascinated.

“Yanno,” Ben said at one point, “these guys don’t live far from here. We could take a road trip and try to talk some sense into them.”

Khalil just shook his head sadly. “No point. They’re too far gone. With the TV deal, it’s a self-sustaining loop, no matter how unsuccessful they are finding treasure. I just can’t believe the Canadians are letting them dig that island to hell and back.”

“Yeah, between draining the wetland and building a cofferdam, that ecosystem is never going to be the same. Wonder who they paid off?”

“So young and yet so cynical,” Khalil said, smirking.

They made themselves go out on the trails on sunny days just to get out of the house. But every morning, Khalil had to fight with himself to get out of bed, and it was becoming more and more difficult to do so. He stopped meditating in the morning and evenings because it was too much bother. He began to question everything about the decision he’d made to settle here, and wondered what the hell he was doing, meddling in Ben’s life the way he was, and playing benevolent dictator with Will and the VFW post, buying their cooperation. Then he began to wonder if even Marc and Adi merely tolerated and humored him. His appetite fell off and he stopped cooking, scavenging in the fridge and cupboards instead.

Ben, meanwhile, was starting to get worried, and finally sat him down the night before Khalil’s next shrink appointment. It looked like they might not make it there the next morning because there was a storm coming in.

“Just as well,” Khalil said from the couch, looking disinclined to move. “I’m not feeling up to going.”

Ben sat down beside him on the floor, so they were eye to eye, and gave him a stern look. “If the VA’s open tomorrow and your shrink is in, we’re going if I have to drag you out to the tank myself. Something’s not right, Khalil. This isn’t you. And I’m worried about you.”

“I’m fine, Ben. Just a wee bit sad, is all. I think it’s cabin fever. I don’t think I’ve been shut in this much ever in my life.”

“No, you’re not fine and you’re not a wee bit sad. When’s the last time you took a shower? Or ate a real meal? Or cooked anything yourself? Or worked out? Or walked Buddy?” At the mention of his name, the dog padded over and stuck his nose in Khalil’s face and gave a lick accompanied by a little whine. “See? Even Buddy knows something’s wrong. I mean, I know I’m not the greatest cook yet, but it’s hard to fuck up stew. There’s a good big pot of it that you haven’t touched and it’s perfectly edible.”

Khalil closed his eyes and turned away. Buddy whined again and nudged him. Khalil reached out a hand and scratched his ears until the dog dropped his head onto the couch beside him. “I’m all right. Stop worrying.”

“At least eat something, you asshole,” Ben insisted in frustration. Buddy barked in agreement.

Khalil’s mouth quirked up on one side and he looked back up at Ben. “All right. When you resort to calling me an asshole you’ve either been learning bad habits from Marc or maybe you’re right.” Khalil heaved himself upright as though it were a tremendous effort. Buddy backed up and barked at him, giving him room, then danced around him all the way to the kitchen, then sat at his feet at the bar while Ben warmed a bowl of stew and cut two slices of his homemade sourdough and a piece of cheese for him.

“Eat. It. All,” Ben said in the most threatening voice he could manage. “No feeding Buddy when I’m not looking.”

“Sir! Yes, sir!” Khalil barked in half-hearted amusement and saluted sloppily.

“Then we’re taking Buddy out for a walk.”

He did feel better after he ate, and he did finish it all under Ben’s supervision. He felt good enough to bundle up and go out with Ben and Buddy down the driveway and a mile or so down the road and back, while the dog investigated all the trees and bushes and left messages for his pals. By the time they got back, though, he was utterly exhausted and it was then he realized Ben was right. This wasn’t just a wee bit of sadness. And that scared him, not just for his own sake, but for Ben’s, who had had to live with someone mentally ill almost all of his life. That was not what he wanted for this lad. If he wouldn’t do anything about what was happening in his head for himself, he’d do something for Ben’s sake.

So instead of having to be dragged out of bed the next morning, Khalil got up and forced himself into the shower and clean clothing and was drinking coffee when Ben tottered downstairs dressed and yawning himself awake to drive over to the VA with Khalil. The storm had not been one, instead leaving just a few inches in the drive, easily driven over now and cleared later.

Carlos only had to prod him a little into admitting he was “not himself.” Khalil shied away from the d-word until Carlos uttered it and then winced at having it applied to himself.

“It seems clear you’ve had other episodes, Kal,” Carlos said, not unkindly but in a matter of fact way that still made Khalil wince. “After Michael died, at the very least.”

“That was just grieving,” Khalil protested.

Carlos shook his head. “From your descriptions of it, you were just barely functioning. People grieve in different ways, but what distinguishes it from depression is our ability to mostly keep going through it. But you hit a brick wall for a while, like you’re doing now. It sounds like you might have been flirting with it when you were in college, too, but not in a serious way. Does it run in your family?”

Khalil thought about it for a while, remembering family stories. “Aye, it might. One of my mother’s brothers killed himself after they fled from Tehran. I always chalked that up to the situation though. They lost so much.”

Carlos nodded. “That kind of displacement can certainly be a trigger for that kind of reaction, but it’s still a form of depression. Coping people don’t suicide, no matter how sad they are or how bad the circumstances. Anyone else in the family?”

“Kill themselves? No. And it’s hard to tell with the Irish. We’re a naturally gloomy bunch even when we’re laughing and smiling and singing. Dancing and crying at the same time, that’s our knack. I think my da might have had a bout of it after I joined the army though. Hard to tell because we didn’t speak for a while, but Mama seemed worried about him. And when she died, he grieved like I did after Michael. Wasn’t taking care of himself, he was so heartbroken. Then he was dead himself, eight months later.”

“That must have been hard for you,” Carlos said sympathetically, “to lose them so quickly together like that. How did you do then?”

Khalil thought about it for a bit and Carlos let him. “Aye,” he said slowly. “I see the difference, now you make a point of it. I thought at the time it was because they were old—in their late 80s, both of them—and there was so much to do to wind up their estate that I didn’t really have time to grieve. But I did. I did grieve them. It just wasn’t the body blow Michael’s death was.”

“So what’s triggering this, do you think?”

Khalil shook his head. “I don’t know. I mean, I know it’s been a big change to settle down in one place like this, one that’s so unlike the climates I’m used to. But honestly, everything outside of me is good: I’ve got a partner I love, who loves me; I’ve got Marc and Adi, and I’m making more friends; I’ve got projects I’m interested in, a home I love. I’ve got Ben with me for probably another year before he goes off to college, but that won’t be much different from working with Michael. We both took jobs that kept us in different parts of the world and still made that work. So I’m not especially worried about that.”

Carlos looked at him with a frown. “Tell me about your postings. You said the climate is different here than you’re used to.”

“Aye, I spent most of my career in the Middle East, with occasional TDYs elsewhere. Same with my consulting firm. I’m losing 30 years of tan up here.”

“So, you’re used to lots of sun, all the time.”

“I’m definitely missing that. I get the whole snowbird phenomenon up here. It’s very tempting.”

“Let’s start with that, first, before we get into chemical prescriptions,” Carlos said, and prescribed a lightbox.

Khalil dutifully purchased one and set it up at the bar to bask while he checked his emails in the morning before Ben got up. It was usually dark when he got up for the day, so he’d been meditating later in the morning than usual anyway, watching the sun come up in the conservatory. It didn’t take long before he started to notice a difference, and Ben did too.

“I dunno about you, but I feel a whole lot more human than I’ve ever felt in the winter,” Ben said one morning.

“I don’t have anything to compare it to except the last few weeks, but aye, definitely better than I was,” Khalil agreed, with some relief. “I’d no idea that a bit of light could make so much difference.”

“What’s ‘son of the desert’ in Arabic?” Ben said with a grin. “That’s you.”

“ _Abn alsahr_ _á._ I guess so. More than I thought. Now it’s got me considering a little place to snowbird in, or at least take a long vacation somewhere that’s got sunlight. It’s not that it isn’t beautiful up here in the winter, but I do miss sunlight. How would you feel about that?”

Ben’s brow furrowed as he considered the idea for a while. “I see some practical considerations that might be a problem. If I set up a business here, or go to work for someone else, that’s not going to be possible, at least for me. Not right away, at least. But you should do what’s best for your mental health, Khalil. I could manage without you in the depths of winter if that’s what it took for you to keep from turning into a six-foot-four slug. That was not pretty. And I’m sure not objecting to the idea of a couple of weeks somewhere warm in January or February.”

Khalil nodded. “Aye, that’s the problem with the two of us at different stages of our lives. Let’s see how this lightbox works out. Maybe it’ll be enough with some periodic breaks here and there. I think I’m going to have to work at finding things to do inside in the winter, too, just to keep myself out of the doldrums.”

“You can always take up knitting,” Ben suggested mischievously.

“Don’t laugh, boyo,” Khalil warned him. “I’ve thought about it. Think of the matching ugly sweaters I could make us.”

As his mood improved, Khalil started to get restless. After a while, the snowshoeing wasn’t enough, and he developed an itch to buy a snowmobile, just to find somewhere to open it up and let out some of his frustrations at being housebound.

“You could taking up racing them,” Ben said. “Quin said there’s a guy in town who races for Team Ski-Doo. I’m sure he’d be happy to hook you up.”

“That’s a thing?” Khalil seemed surprised.

“C’mon, people race cockroaches. You think they wouldn’t race snowmobiles?”

“I did not need to know either of those things, thank you,” Khalil replied primly. “One is disgusting and the other is too damn tempting.”

“I didn’t know you liked fast machines,” Ben said curiously.

“I had a motorcycle for quite a long time, a good rough terrain touring bike. Gave it up when I broke my leg and gave myself a concussion riding in the desert in Yemen. Decided that was enough of playing at Lawrence of Arabia. And my CO was not happy about that little accident, either. It took me out of circulation for six months.”

Ben gave him an intrigued look. “There’s an image I won’t get out of my head anytime soon. You’ve got Peter O’Toole’s eyes, god knows.”

Khalil laughed. “Hah! If only! I’ll have to find some old pictures of me in Afghanistan in uniform—the ones I could never send my parents. Marc took quite a few of our squad. He might even be in a few.”

Ben frowned thoughtfully. “You know, I don’t even know what your parents look like, Khalil. You should put some photos up on the mantel or wherever: you, your folks, Michael, Manizha, your friends.”

“Us.”

Ben’s smile got very big. “I’d like that. But I would _looooove_ to see you in your uniform.”

Khalil shrugged. “Eh, I look like every other grunt. Just taller than most and quite a bit more tan than I am now. The dress blues are a different matter, though, me boyo,” he said with a wink. “I’m a bit sorry to see them replaced by greens. I suppose I should get a new set if I’m going to be Vice Commander. There will be parades and shite and it won’t do not to be regulation, even if I am retired.”

Ben got up off the couch and put his e-reader on the table. “Let’s go look at pictures. Do you have them on your laptop? Or your phone?”

“Most of them are just in a box. I’ve got my parents’ old photos too. I suppose I should get them all digitized to save them.”

“There’s a photo studio somewhere around here that does that. Or at least I’ve seen ads for it. C’mon, I wanna see them.”

They spent the afternoon and part of the evening going through Khalil’s cache of photos, and digging up some of Ben’s as well, which were mostly with Siri and Garen—photos they had taken of them together and sent to Ben.

“You look—tentatively happy in these,” Khalil observed, “like you’re trying out the idea but not sure how to do it.”

“That’s about right, I think,” Ben agreed. “Garen and Siri tried really hard. We did a lot of fun and crazy stuff that normal kids do. I just always knew what I had to go back to.”

“Stolen moments, then,” Khalil said and kissed his temple.

Ben nodded. “Until you came along. Then I felt like I had real reason to go ahead and try it out for real. But I still had to ease into it.”

“Keep practicing,” Khalil advised. “So you’ll remember what it feels like when you need it most. Believe me, it helps.”

Some of Khalil’s photos were from his mother’s family, before they left Tehran, and he wasn’t sure who some of the people in them were as they hadn’t been labeled, or the ink had faded so much it was unreadable. Ben was fascinated by those and the houses and background in them. There were photos from Ireland as well, including some of the family seat, and some stern looking Irish grandparents and great-grandparents and merrier young people. And photos of his parents at home in scattered postings, or attending official dinners and receptions, sometimes with a half-grown Khalil between them. There were a few snapshots from Cambridge, where Khalil’s hair was as long as it was now, coupled with a beard that made him look like a mad poet.

“You don’t look any happier than me in most of your Cambridge photos, Khalil,” Ben observed.

“I suppose I wasn’t,” Khalil admitted. “I hadn’t come out yet, except to my parents, when most of these were taken, and didn’t like myself very well then. And I’d no idea of who or what I was going to be. A lot of my friends were artists or writers, so I borrowed from them to construct myself, because I wasn’t into football or cricket or any of that. I didn’t even like the boxing. It just seemed necessary, and I was good at it. I enjoyed the intellectual challenge, but not the social aspects of being at Cambridge. And I was a bit lonely. The girls wouldn’t leave me alone, which is why I grew the beard—not that that worked—and I was mooning after unattainable boys.”

The photos of Khalil in uniform were a different matter; he clearly seemed happy in them, as though he’d found his identity and his place in life. Whether grinning up at the camera in the sun, wearing desert camo fatigues and a sweat rimed T-shirt with its sleeves rolled up, rifle between his knees, or in his dress blues, they made Ben fan himself. “You’re like a fucking pin-up,” he growled, “even with your hair that short. What made you grow it again?”

“Neglect, mostly,” Khalil admitted. “I grew it out after Michael died. I wasn’t in very good shape then, not taking care of myself. That’s when I grew the beard out, too. Come to think of it, I could use a good trim again,” he said, feeling his chin. “Beard and hair. You could too, boyo, even if you’re growing it out long. That’ll get us out of the house tomorrow.”

“Good idea,” Ben said. And then, hesitantly, “do you have pictures of Michael? That you’d share?”

“Oh, aye. I never showed you the one on my phone?” Ben shook his head. “I showed it to Marc. I’m sorry. Slipped my mind, love.” Khalil took out his phone and scrolled through it to the goofy photo of them in Paris that he’d showed Marc. Ben burst out laughing, and Khalil grinned with him.

“You look like a couple of lovesick cows,” he said. “That’s hilarious.”

“We do, don’t we? That’s the kind of crazy shite we did together, a couple of grown men. He made me laugh all the time, the silly bastard. I loved him for it.”

Ben looked over at him with a sad smile on his face. “I want to make you that happy,” he said quietly.

Khalil looked upset then, and stroked a hand through Ben’s hair. “You do, boyo. You make me every bit as happy as Michael did. Not in the same way, but you’re not him; you’re very much yourself, and that’s who I fell in love with. Not with someone who might be a substitute for Michael. You make me laugh in your own way, and you make me feel young in a way Michael never did. You’re both one of a kind and I’m lucky to have known and loved him, and found and have you to love now. Never fear that.” He leaned in kissed Ben tenderly.

David Salminen called later in the week to say he was sending over the estimate and ask Ben if he wanted to come in a couple of days a week and “hang around.” They’d see what developed, since it was slow in the office right now, but at the very least, he would give Ben some advice about his portfolio and about schools. Of course, Ben took him up on it, eagerly. Khalil thought he was probably excited to have someone to talk shop with, and relieved that he could get some solid, industry-specific advice. And get out of the house.

“I’ve got no fucking idea what to wear though,” Ben said in a repeat of his anxiety over the first invitation to Marc and Adi’s for dinner. “I’ve never had a job or an internship. Help!”

“Take your cues from your boss,” Khalil advised. “He was wearing a sport coat and khakis and workboots in the office. You don’t want to dress better than he does, but you don’t want to be too informal, either, which signals that you don’t value or take seriously what he’s offering you. You could do with a wider wardrobe anyway, before going off into the world.”

“I could do with some damn clues on how to wear it too.” Ben sank his head in his hands. “Raised by fucking wolves, I swear.”

“Well, luckily, you happen to be living with someone who knows the ins and outs and subtleties of male sartorial practices, despite spending 20 years in a uniform,” Khalil said with a wry smile. “One of the advantages of growing up with diplomats. But I don’t think we’re going to find what you need up here. How’s a trip to Chicago sound? It’ll get us out of the house for a bit and maybe alleviate the cabin fever. I’ve been thinking about a trip anyway and this is a good excuse.”

“Have you, now?” Ben said suspiciously, but with a teasing undertone. “Not cut out for Up North living where there’s 16 hours of darkness a day?”

“Not used to being in one place this long,” Khalil confessed. “Not used to having more than a room as a home base. It’s been grand wallowing in that change, but I’ve always had itchy feet. Speaking of which, we should get you a passport too, for my impulse travel urges and those trysts in Paris.”

Ben blinked at him with a classic deer-in-the-headlights expression.

“What? Did you think I was kidding about that?” Khalil said with a lopsided smile.

“I … I guess I did. I’m, uh, not used to thinking of travel as something I can do. You really want to go to Chicago?”

“Why not? Can you fit it in your busy schedule?”

Ben threw a pillow at him.

And the next morning, found himself boarding a plane for the first time in his life at the little airport on the decommissioned base and clearly trying to be cool about it. Khalil tried to remember his first flight and couldn’t. He’d probably been very young, flying off somewhere with his parents. He couldn’t remember a time when it had been exciting to get on a plane, unless he was going to be jumping out of it later. Even then it was more the jump than the ride that had been exciting. He graciously ceded the window seat and enjoyed Ben’s sense of glee and pleasure instead. It was far more entertaining than watching the clouds or the white landscape.

They spent three days in Chicago, going to museums, walking the city, eating out, and expanding Ben’s wardrobe. It was different from traveling with Michael, who, like Khalil, had seen much of the world and had favorite spots to share, but no less enjoyable for that. Ben had favorite buildings, some of which were in Chicago, and tidbits about their history and architects, and an appreciation for every bit of the new experience he was having, especially the museums, which Khalil also enjoyed. Having not seen much of the U.S. himself, Chicago was new to Khalil, too, and exploring it with Ben cured some of his cabin fever, even though it was every bit as cold as the place they’d just left.

It was delightful to sit in a café with Ben and watch the denizens go by, or have an excellent dinner cooked by neither of them and linger over the after-dinner drinks, and wake up to room service breakfasts, delightful to roam the halls of first class museums and remind himself there was art and beauty in the world. He hadn’t been able to recognize any, anywhere, for a long time after Michael died. He’d begun to see it again on the trails behind their house with Ben, and seeing it in the form of art that Ben had always wanted to see himself, seeing it through his eyes, reminded him that there was more of it.

Standing in front of _Paris Street; Rainy Day,_ Ben said, “Is it really like that? Still?”

Khalil put his arm around Ben’s shoulders and pulled him close; Ben slipped his arm around Khalil’s waist. “A fair bit of it. Not the clothing, obviously but the sentiment and the architecture. Street life’s important in Paris. The cafes all have sidewalk seating in fine weather. You’ll see.”

“Do you miss it?”

“Not especially.” Khalil shrugged. “I like Paris, but it’s not my favorite, except for the memories of being there with Michael. There are other cities I like better.”

“What’s your favorite?” Ben said as they continued to stroll through the gallery full of European art, stopping now and then at something that attracted them.

“I have several. Barcelona is one. Rome another. Dublin. Prague. Istanbul. Tunis.”

“I’d love to see them with you.” Ben’s arm slipped up under his sweater and his fingers slithered under the top of Khalil’s jeans.

“You will,” Khalil promised. “But you should do some traveling on your own, too. It’s different when you’re on your own. Or with friends your own age. You should do a semester abroad. That’s a fun way to see a bit of the world.”

“There is such a thing?” Ben looked both surprised and excited by that idea.

“Oh, sure. Look into it when you’re evaluating the school you want to go to and see what kind of program they’ve got.”

“I will, thanks!” He was almost dancing again alongside Khalil, full of excitement and energy and life, and making Khalil feel far younger than he was, too.

He’d also enjoyed helping Ben choose some new professional clothing. Especially the tuxedo fitting.

“You think I should get a what?” he’d said incredulously, when Khalil had broached the idea before they left. “I’ve missed the prom, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

“Trust me on this one,” Khalil assured him. “You won’t want it often, and up here probably not at all, but when the occasion arises—and it will, I promise you—you’ll be glad you’ve got your own. If you wind up in a big city like Boston for school, who knows what occasions might arise, especially as you finish up? Like, say, award ceremonies.”

Ben laughed and shook his head. “You’re very optimistic and have an inflated sense of my abilities. Do you have one?”

“Aye, though I’ve not worn it since before Michael died. We went to some shite, flesh-pressing gala, I think—no, it was a diplomatic dinner in the UAE I went to alone.”

“So convince me I need one. Let’s see you in yours.”

They had trooped upstairs and Khalil had dug out his tux, surprised to find the pants actually a bit loose. “Hadn’t thought I’d been working out that much more,” he said, zipping them up over the shirt tail. Tie tied and studs and cufflinks inserted, he did a slow turn for Ben, who had watched from a sprawl on the bed. Khalil reached back and twisted his hair into a low, loose bun at his neck. “I’d probably braid this,” he said, slicking his hair with one hand. “I like the sleekness of it pulled back for this outfit.”

“Me too,” Ben squeaked, all but salivating. Khalil grinned at him lasciviously. “No seriously, you’re the only guy I know who can actually rock the man bun. You’d make a ponytail look masculine. And you look lethal in that. Very James Bond—the Deluxe Edition. Okay, I’m convinced. Now, teach me how to tie ties, so I don’t look like an imbecile. That’s another life skill my father never taught me.”

The fitting had been fun to watch. Ben had surprised him by handing himself over to the Brooks Brothers consultant without reserve and choosing a very traditional look with a waistcoat, although that waistcoat had been a deep blue brocade that set off his eyes beautifully. And Ben had paid for it himself, rather than letting Khalil do so. “My wardrobe, my responsibility,” he’d said stubbornly. “And it’s not as if I don’t have a job and a credit card, sir.” Khalil gave way gracefully, but was already planning to look for a set of sapphire studs and cufflinks for Ben’s next birthday.

The rest of his wardrobe they bought off the shelf, including the one good suit in a dove gray with a fine lavender pinstripe, which would also need a bit of tailoring, and two sport coats and several nice shirts, all but one of them with at least a splash of color, and a pair of dress shoes. Good quality khakis would round out the rest. Khalil bought himself a couple of decadently soft cashmere sweaters that Ben sighed over enviously. “Next time, maybe. They’re outside my budget now. I’ll just rub up against yours in the meanwhile.”

“I’ll be sure to wear them often,” Khalil said gravely. “Wouldn’t want to deprive you of that pleasure.”

Buddy, taken care of by Kit while they were gone, greeted them effusively with happy barks and face licking when they walked back in the front door. Khalil was surprised to find himself glad to be home again, not even sorry when they were once more snowed in the following day. It was an unfamiliar feeling that he was beginning to enjoy, this notion of home as a place that was permanent and shaped to his own desires, and the desires of the person he wanted to share it with for however long they had together.

They finally picked up their ski equipment the next week, just as Khalil thought he might be going utterly mad from the boredom of scanning his family photos, which he’d decided were too fragile to entrust to anyone else. Marc finally taught them both to cross-country ski and found great amusement in watching Khalil trip over himself in the process. Ben, like Adi, seemed to be born knowing how to do it and did so gracefully, but it took Khalil some time to figure out how to move around with absurdly long boards strapped to his feet. He spent a couple of hours every day just getting comfortable with them and learning how to move until it felt more like second nature if still somewhat awkward.

The first day he and Ben and Marc and Adi spent on the trails together was wish fulfillment of the best kind. That activity had been a picture he’d held onto in the dark days after Michael’s death: the idea that he still had Marc and Adi and this was something he could enjoy with them and use to connect with them. That picture had given him something to work toward when he’d felt like he had nothing left. He’d felt then if he could just make this happen, he’d be all right. And he was, now, more than all right as he trailed the pack and enjoyed watching the people he loved gliding through the woods, the air crisp and biting, sun glittering off the snowpack between the trees. Even the spill or two that he took, accompanied by Marc’s merciless ribbing, failed to spoil the pleasure and perhaps added to it. It felt a bit like the times they’d been in the field together when nobody had been shooting at them. They finished up the run at Marc and Adi’s in front of their fireplace with hot cocoa and hot toddies and, for Khalil, a deep sense of contentment that was becoming more familiar the longer he spent with people he cared for.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New undertakings, some surprises, assholery, and a gift.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW. Pretty, but NSFW.

The Monday after their return from Chicago, Ben took himself off to David Salminen’s office with his own messenger bag full of blueprints and elevations for his new “boss” to review. He’d come downstairs in a pair of nice khakis and pale blue striped buttondown, sans tie, tweed sport coat in the other hand. Khalil fed him a good breakfast, which he ate carefully, mindful of his new clothes, and kissed him at the door with a certain amount of both amusement and pride. Any number of 1950s cliché lines floated through Khalil’s head, but he kept them to himself, knowing Ben’s pop culture gaps were a bit of a sore spot with him.

“Enjoy yourself, love, and have a great day. I’ll see you when you get home,” he said instead.

As he watched Ben’s truck head up the driveway, he felt a pall of melancholy threatening to descend on him. This was Ben’s first step away from him, into his own life, and it was hard to tell how far away it would take him. While he was eager to see what that journey would bring Ben, it was harder to know it would mean some kind of separation for both of them—and that he would be the one left behind.

The upshot was, he needed an occupation of his own that didn’t involve meddling in other people’s lives. Somehow, Khalil didn’t think knitting was it.

After finishing breakfast, he cleaned up and took himself down to the library. Joanne caught him wandering the shelves and asked what he was looking for. They had reached a little more than détente at the dinner Khalil and Ben had hosted for her and her husband, but were still a bit tentative with each other. Khalil knew charm wasn’t the answer here, so he was just himself with her.

“Well, I’m not entirely sure,” he admitted. “I’ve retired, as you know, and I find I have a lot of time on my hands, and I can’t spend all of it meddling in other people’s lives.” Joanne gave him a tight, knowing smile. Khalil returned it wryly. “So I suppose I’m looking for a hobby. I’m trying to work out how to actually do this ‘retired’ thing. The last time I did it, I went right into another job.”

“Have you given the community notice board a look?” she asked. “People post notices for lessons and other opportunities there. Beyond that, were you thinking of a craft of some sort?”

“I think it’s a ‘I’ll know it when I see it’ situation, frankly,” Khalil admitted. “But probably a craft of some sort, yes. Ben and I have been joking about me taking up knitting. There’s something appealing in that: keeping my hands busy and at least part of my mind occupied. I’ve never been a big consumer of media other than music, and it may be heretical to say this to a librarian, but I can only read so much.”

“Perfectly understandable, Khalil,” Joanne said with a somewhat warmer smile. “I crochet in the evenings, too. Give the community board a look and we can go from there.”

“Yes, Ma’am. Thank you,” Khalil said and took himself off to the bulletin board just to the left of the inside door. Joanne was right; in addition to notices for yard work and plowing and cords of firewood were advertisements for classes of all kinds. The number and variety in this small community surprised him: musical instrument lessons, crochet and knitting classes, woodworking, jewelry-making, metal smithing, Finnish and Spanish language lessons, papermaking, even a glassblowing class. The one that pinged in his head and his heart was the notice for a pottery throwing class given by the artist who made the beautiful pieces on his own table. “Blessings on you, Joanne,” he murmured. He gave her a wave and headed back to the tank to drive over to the potter’s studio.

It turned out that Michelle Culver, a tall, slim young woman with a powerful handshake, had studied in Japan and was married to a Japanese man, Hayato Keiji, who had a chemistry degree and was the source of her amazing glazes. She remembered Khalil from his last purchases and was pleased to hear he was interested in lessons. They set up a time, and Michelle gave Khalil a list of supplies he’d need.

“Do you need a registration fee or deposit?” Khalil asked.

“Not right now,” she said. “You’re my only student at the moment, so we’ll see how it goes. You might decide it’s not for you after all.”

“Aye, that’s true,” Khalil acknowledged. “But I’d be surprised if that were the case. It’s something that’s been in the back of my mind for quite a while.”

“Well, sometimes the reality doesn’t match the fantasy,” she cautioned. “I’d hate to see you disappointed. Why don’t you tell me what you’re looking to learn and why?”

Khalil took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “That’s a good question,” he said. “I’ve never thought of myself as a creative person, and I’m wondering if I have that in me. This seems like a structured way to find that out, in a medium I’ve always liked. These mitts of mine aren’t much for delicate work. So it’s either this, or metal working, or glass blowing, I think.”

Michelle nodded and twisted her dark brown hair up a little tighter. “That seems reasonable to me, as long as you don’t mind getting dirty in the process.”

“No fear of dirt here, after 20 years in the army,” Khalil assured her with a smile. “Especially since I’ve got the luxury of a hot shower to get it off me now.”

She laughed at that and stuck out a hand with gray slip under the short nails and around the cuticles. “Then I’ll see you on Thursday,” she said.

Khalil went away feeling pleased and excited, the way Ben had that morning. He collected his supplies at the art store and stopped at the diner for lunch, where he ran into Duke and Joanne, who invited him to join them.

“I take it you found what you were looking for?” Joanne asked him.

“Well, we’ll see,” he said cautiously. “I found a possibility. Michelle Culver agreed to take me on and teach me how to throw pottery.”

Joanne raised an eyebrow. “Not exactly something you can do watching TV in the evenings.”

“No, but a good daytime filler, and that’s more what I was looking for, I realized. I’ve got the dojo and the VFW and books and dinners with friends to fill my evenings. And Ben. And the rest of that will still be there when he goes off to school. So it’s either throwing pottery, or I buy a snowmobile and race it up and down the lake all day. This seems smarter. And less annoying to my neighbors. But I might be wanting some books on the chemistry of glazes eventually.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, Khalil,” Joanne said with a smile.

Ben came in the door a little after six with a shit-eating grin on his face. Khalil walked over for a greeting and had a crushing hug and delicious kiss bestowed upon him, both of which he returned with enthusiasm.

“So I take it you had a good first day on the job?” he said as Ben stepped back to unlace his boots and hang his coat.

“I did. David’s a really nice guy and spent a lot of time going over my work with me, helping me choose pieces for the portfolio and making other suggestions. I mean, like a _lot_ of time. Most of the day. He also took me to lunch and asked if I could come in three days a week, since he’s just gotten a big, new project in. And he’s kicking in minimum wage, which is more than I expected. So I’m officially a working stiff, I guess. It feels weird. I guess you should take me off the payroll for the time being.”

Khalil shrugged. “Plenty of people work two jobs. As far as I’m concerned, you’re still on retainer. But you might have to work nights and weekends for me, if you’ve got some fancy job now,” he teased.

Ben stepped back into his arms and straddled one leg, briefly grinding against him. “Baby, I would work all night for you, seven nights a week,” he purred.

“You are a happy lad, aren’t you? I’m not even wearing the cashmere today.”

“I am,” he admitted with a laugh. “This just feels like some real progress, finally. Even if it’s only peripherally related to school. Oh, and David said he’d write me a recommendation letter.”

“Already?” Khalil was not surprised but was definitely pleased.

“After he’d seen all my work and I’d talked about the planning and building I’d done for you.”

“Still, that seems pretty extraordinary.”

“I can’t really believe it, to tell you the truth. It just, it feels like things are moving, finally, like I’m not stalled anymore and there might be some momentum building. We’re going to talk about which schools to apply to later.”

Khalil hugged him close. “That’s really fantastic, boyo. I’m really proud of you for initiating this and getting the ball rolling. Well done, you.”

Ben returned the hug, then stepped back and found a seat at the counter. “And now I’m exhausted from all the excitement, like a little kid.”

“And hungry, I imagine. There’s some risotto already done in the oven and I was thinking of some grilled pork chops and broccoli. Sound good?”

“Sounds fabulous,” Ben agreed, sliding off his stool to set the table. “So what’d you do all day?”

“I went to the library, and had lunch with Joanne and Duke. And I signed up for a pottery course with the potter we bought dishes from,” Khalil said. “I’m going to need something to keep me occupied while you’re off at your new job.”

“No way.” Ben looked astonished.

“I did. The materials are sitting in that bag right there by the door, the one from the art store.”

“No I meant you had lunch with Joanne and Duke,” Ben said, mouth trembling with the effort of not laughing.

Khalil shook the tongs at him. “You little _ifrit._ Such a smartass.”

“Seriously, though,” Ben said as he finished laying out plates and cutlery, “what brought that on?”

“Fear of boredom,” Khalil confessed. “I can’t just swan around interfering with everybody’s lives all the time like some old busybody. I need some kind of work, or a hobby, or something.”

“You could always apply to be a cop. I’m sure the township would be glad to have somebody with your experience.”

Khalil shook his head. “I’m of the opinion that ex-military people should never be in law enforcement. Besides, Marc would never let me live it down if I did that. We’ve been arguing about it since he ran for sheriff the first time.”

“Why’s that?” Ben asked curiously. “Seems like a natural progression to me.”

Khalil tested the grill and put the chops on it. “The military teaches soldiers to think of civilians as potentially hostile and in need of containment and control. Law enforcement should never think of citizens that way. That’s one reason why it’s not legal except under certain circumstances to turn the military on our own citizens here, and why we have a part-time _citizen_ militia called the National Guard to keep domestic order. There should be no “civilians” to someone who’s a cop. If you’re in law enforcement, you’re not part of an occupying army, or a paramilitary organization, you’re just another neighbor given temporary authority to help other neighbors, keep order, and enforce the law. Which means you should live in the area you’re policing, too, so you know the people you’re keeping the peace for. If you’ve spent a long time in the military, it’s really hard to shake the the kind of us-versus-them mentality that the military cultivates, and has to encourage. To be fair, Marc does a great job of it, but he’s an exception to the rule. And don’t tell him I said that.”

Khalil flipped the chops over and checked the water in the steamer, then lowered in the basket with the broccoli. “Equating cops and military has led to us having SWAT teams and armored military surplus vehicles in tiny little towns like this one and police departments that are as well armed but not as well trained in the proper use of their weaponry as a National Guard unit. Some of them are a small step above Jeff Robinson and his ilk: small men who think they’re big because their guns are. Little martinets.”

“Hmmm, hadn’t thought of it that way,” Ben said, looking thoughtful. “And I don’t honestly have the experience to have an opinion about it one way or the other. Although I know I don’t like what I see in the news in other places, especially the way so many Black folks are treated by cops.” Ben was sorting through the mail now, having picked it out of the box on his way in.

Khalil sensed it when Ben went still behind him, but finished flipping the chops once more. “Something interesting in the mail?” he said.

Ben snorted. “Yeah, you might say so. It’s a notice about my father’s sentencing hearing.” He looked at the other letter, “And that other jerk who came after me, the one who’s jaw I broke. Apparently they both pled guilty, so there weren’t any trials. I’m invited to give a victim’s statements. There three here for you, too, but I don’t know if they say the same thing.”

“Open them up, if you would,” Khalil said, taking the broccoli out of the steamer and dumping it into a serving dish. He took the risotto out of the warm oven and spooned it into another, then did the same with the chops, turning off the burners and oven, and placing the food on the counter. “Or not. Let’s wait until after dinner. Who needs to think about those assholes when we’ve got good food in front of us?”

“Too right,” Ben muttered.

But the hearings hung like a pall over dinner, until Ben pushed his plate away halfway through. Khalil reached over and rubbed his back lightly.

“Sorry, it’s not the food, Khalil. I’ve just totally lost my appetite now.”

“It’ll keep, love,” he said, squeezing Ben’s shoulder. His muscles had tightened up just since he’d come in the door. “What are you thinking?”

“Trying to decide whether I want to have anything more to do with this or not. How much I care what happens to my father. Whether I should.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“I don’t know. It’s so wound up in my head my childhood that I’m not sure I can.”

“Maybe you should talk it out with Alisa. She’s bound to be more dispassionate than I am about it, anyway. Does the date give you enough time to do that?”

Ben nodded, brightening a little. “Yeah, they’re a month away. That’s probably a good idea, to talk to her instead of asking you to help me solve this. I know you would, but I—it’s, it’s my stuff. I feel like I need to take care of this myself.”

Khalil stroked his fingers through Ben’s hair. “I understand that. I think that’s a wise decision, to talk to Alisa. Not an easy one, but a good one. And you know I’ll always listen, no matter what.”

“Well, you’ve got your own shit to handle. Let’s see what your notices say.”

Khalil slit the three envelopes open and looked over their contents. “Two plea bargains and invitations to submit a victim’s statement, and one trial notice. Guess who that involves?” Khalil said with eye-rolling annoyance. “That dumbass really doesn’t know when he’s licked.”

“Robinson’s going to trial? That asshole!” Ben said, incensed and sounding a little shrill. “He’s going to try to twist this into him being the victim, you watch. He’ll represent himself, and the whole trial will be the prosecutor jumping up and saying ‘Objection!’ to his questioning because he has no fucking idea what he’s doing, and doesn’t recognize it as a legitimate proceeding anyway. He’s just going to use this to challenge everything about the current legal system, except he’s not smart enough to do that. It’s going to be total bullshit, Khalil. A real shit show. It’s exactly the kind of crap he and my father used to talk about all the time. God I hate this! I hate all those fuckers!” Ben was panting by the time he finished.

Khalil rubbed his back again, soothingly. “Deep breaths, love. They’re not worth making yourself sick over.”

Ben sank his head into his hands and leaned on the counter. “No, I know,” he said in a muffled voice. “I just—every time something happens with them or my father, it just pushes my buttons. Makes me afraid of losing you and the future I’ve found now. It’s not rational, I know, but—”

“It’s still a trigger. I get it. That’s a big load of crack conspiracy theories and pain you grew up with to just pack away in less than a year, love. It’ll take awhile. But they can’t hurt you now. You’re an adult, you have friends and allies, you know how to defend yourself, you’re not powerless, and they’re both in trouble with the legal system. And you’ve got me on your side. Remind yourself of that when you need to.”

Ben nodded and reached out to take his hand. “That’s the best thing about everything that’s happened: I’ve got you.”

Khalil slipped off his seat and Ben turned on his to meet him so Khalil was standing between his legs, holding his arms open. Ben rested his head on Khalil’s shoulder and closed his eyes, arms going tight around his waist. Khalil’s big hand came up and held his head there, the other arm going around his shoulders. Seeing Ben this upset brought out every protective instinct Khalil had, but also something deeper and hotter and fiercer. It wasn’t just that he wanted so much for Ben, but that he want to keep the hurt away as well, to watch him thrive and prosper and be able to freely love whom he wanted without fear. And he hoped that person was himself, for a long time.

“It’s all right, boyo,” he said, kissing Ben’s head. “We’ll wait and see what happens. It’s not that I don’t believe you, it’s that I can hardly believe Robinson would have that kind of balls. But I guess I’ve already seen what a first class asshole he is. I’ll just go into it expecting what you said. And I’ll see if Marc’s got any scuttlebutt about any of this, too.”

“In the meanwhile, fuck him and his assholery,” Ben said determinedly, and squeezed Khalil tight before leaning back. Khalil dove in for a quick kiss and a nose rub.

“Exactly. ‘Assholery.’ That’s perfect. That militia’s a platoon of assholes. To hell with them.”

They finished dinner after all—Ben’s mood lightening substantially—and cleaned up, and then Ben announced he had a project and would Khalil like to help.

“Sure. What kind of help do you need?”

“Let me check something first,” Ben said, and went out the front door and down the porch steps to look up at the sky, which was clear as a bell and thickly spattered with stars.

“Okay, looks like we’re good to go,” he said coming back inside at due speed and shivering. “Brrrrrr! Now, can you help me take one of the mats out to the conservatory? It’s nice and warm in there but that slate floor is still too cold to lie on.”

“Of course, but why would we be lying on the floor in the conservatory in the middle of winter?”

Ben gave a sly grin and headed for the basement stairs. “You’ll see.”

They wrestled one of the floor mats up from the basement, out the front door, and down the path to the conservatory and inside. It was indeed warm and humid, almost tropical, in the little former greenhouse, and the flowers Khalil had chosen were all in full bloom, some of them exotic, like the birds of paradise and ginger, some not so, like the bougainvillea, mandevilla, and hoya. In one corner were the African violets under their grow light, that Khalil had jokingly said he felt a kinship with from needing his own “grow light.” There was a lemon tree and a ficus giving a little shade to the plants that liked it, along with the many palms, and pots of herbs and salad greens along the top of the potting bench at the back. Melinda, the florist he’d purchased most of this from, had checked in a couple of times and said he was doing great on his own, as a first-time gardener. The room smelled wonderful, of earth and flowers and herbs.

“I need to spend more time in here,” Khalil said. “See what else I can grow. And maybe put a chair in here after all and just sit and read on sunny days. I like meditating here in the mornings and evenings, but it’s usually dawn or dusk.”

“Well, I think I can give you another excuse to spend time here,” Ben said. “Just a couple more things to get. Come on.”

The next load was from Ben’s studio and included two pillows and his puffy comforter. Ben climbed the stairs and called, “hang on a minute and I’ll toss these down to you,” though it was more than a minute or two before the folded comforter dropped into his arms, followed by the pillows. Ben followed and relieved Khalil of half the burden, then followed him out the door again. Buddy tried to come along and was disappointed when Ben told him, “later, pal. I promise.”

“Are we camping out here tonight?” Khalil said curiously, helping Ben spread the comforter over the mat.

“Sort of,” was all Ben would say as he checked his watch. “Okay, just about any time now.” He turned off all the lights and stretched out on top of the mat and comforter, patting the space beside him. Khalil lowered himself down and snuggled up beside Ben, who was lying on his back looking up at the night sky again.

“Are we stargazing?”

“Sort of,” Ben said again, amusement in his voice.

“Hmm, we missed the Geminids, so it’s not a meteor sh—oh my god,” Khalil breathed in awe as the sky filled with ribbons of wavering green aurora. “Holy shit that’s amazing, and gorgeous! Wow!”

“Perfect timing,” Ben said with satisfaction. “We only get to see it a couple of times a year because we’re still pretty far south for it, but it’s always a great show,” he explained, clearly pleased at Khalil’s reaction. “I try not to miss it.”

“I’ve seen a fair amount of astronomical phenomenon in my life, but this is one thing I’ve always wanted to see,” Khalil said, eyes turned skyward but squeezing Ben’s hand in excitement. “I’ve always been too far south for it, or visiting the north at the wrong time. Holy fuck that’s beautiful.”

“When it’s really energetic, you can actually hear it: sort of a rustling sound, like fabric. Probably not tonight though. That’s not a big display. Pretty, but not huge.”

They watched for nearly an hour, snuggled close together, Ben’s head on his shoulder, before the display began to die down. “That was gorgeous, love. Thank you.”

“I didn’t actually make that happen, Khalil,” Ben said with amusement. “I just checked the forecast.”

“That’s on the weather report here?” Khalil said in surprise. “Good to know.”

“I did think it might be a good excuse for something else, though,” he said, straddling Khalil’s hips and leaning down for a kiss. Khalil skimmed his hands along Ben’s back and began to pull his various shirttails out of his pants. When he slithered his fingers under the waistband, Ben ground against him, already half hard. Khalil felt his own cock filling in interest. He started on Ben’s buttons, from top to bottom, popping the one at the top of his khakis and lowering the zipper to palm the straining cock inside.

Meanwhile, Ben had wriggled his hands under all of Khalil’s shirts and pushed them up, peeling them off in a bunch until Khalil was forced to raise his arms over his head and let himself be divested of everything he was wearing from the waist up. Ben tossed them aside. When Khalil’s hand covered his package, he stopped dead, his mouth dropping open in surprise and eyes rolling back, making incoherent noises and grinding into the touch. Khalil kneaded carefully, mindful of how close he seemed.

And indeed, just a moment later, Ben was squirming and muttering “stop stop stop, not yet—” and then he went utterly still in what looked like a superhuman effort. “God, Khalil,” he gasped a minute later, “your hands drive me wild.” He rocked back on his heels and got up, then leaned over and reached for Khalil’s fly. But Khalil’s hands were already there at the buttons himself, so Ben helped strip him out of his jeans and shorts, leaving him naked on the comforter, cock arching up as Ben watched with satisfaction. He stripped out of his own khakis then, but folded them and left them on the meditation cushion, and peeled off his own shorts, but not before taking a small bottle out of the khakis’ pocket. Then he straddled Khalil’s hips again and handed him the bottle.

“I was never a Boy Scout, but I’ve learned to be prepared. And I am. Just for you,” he said in sultry tones, guiding Khalil’s hand between his legs to stroke over his hole—

—which … wasn’t.

“Christ and Allah, what have you got in there, you little _ifrit?_ ” Khalil’s voice had a catch in it, whether in outrage or arousal even he couldn’t tell. He explored the edges by touch, then dug his fingers in under the edges and rocked it, watching avidly as Ben shuddered above him as the plug hit his prostate. “Have you had this in you all this time?” he demanded, working it back and forth. Ben shuddered and whined. “Yes, yes, oh god Khalil if you don’t slow down please stop!”

But he didn’t, this time pulling out what seemed like an impossibly long and thick dildo and pushing it in again, hard, while Ben yelped and squirmed. His own cock was hard and aching to be where the dildo was, and Ben’s was running with pre-cum. Ben reached back and grabbed his hand to stop him.

“Wait, wait, dammit,” Ben growled. “I wanted to be ready for you, not this toy. Later for that. Slick yourself up, Colonel. Do I have to do everything?”

Khalil grinned slyly. “Sir! Yes, sir! Right away, sir!” he barked and flipped open the cap of the bottle.

Ben took his other hand and flipped it palm up. “Lots of lube.” Then he went up on his knees, reached back and, shuddering, pulled out the dildo and put it aside. When Khalil had slicked himself, Ben took him in hand, held the head to his loosened hole, and slowly lowered himself onto Khalil’s cock, letting it fill him inch by inch.

Khalil watched him greedily, watched him just breathing as he first lowered himself and when he sat on Khalil’s pelvis, eyes closed and head thrown back, chest rising and falling deeply, as though after a run. His muscles spasmed a little and Khalil bucked in response, pushing a whine out of Ben. “Christ and Allah, you’re tight!”

Ben opened his eyes and grinned at Khalil, panting and hungry. “Just for you. Guess what’s next?”

“You’re going to ride me like the pushy bottom you are?” Khalil said hopefully.

Ben leaned down and gave him a long, savage kiss that ravaged his mouth and left his lips swollen and bitten. “Yes, I am, sir. Hold on,” he whispered and bit Khalil’s neck.

He leaned back, pulling a groan from Khalil as he was tightly sheathed again, and started slowly, rising and falling on Khalil’s cock in a steady, easy rhythm, stroking himself as he went. Khalil watched his face as his eyes fluttered closed and his wet, luscious mouth dropped open, and ran his hands up Ben’s thighs, over his stomach and chest, tweaking his nipples, and tried not to think about how good it felt to be in him, not yet. He wanted to enjoy this, to let it stretch out as long as they could. So when the aurora dropped back into the night sky above them, framing Ben in all its beauty, he let himself glory in the picture of this beautiful young man giving him this wonderful gift of himself and the night sky—at least until Ben kicked it up a notch.

Then he was helpless and there was no paying attention to anything but the tension building in him as Ben tightened and relaxed himself as he rose and fell at the same pace. He bucked into the tight warmth, hands gripping Ben’s thighs. He’d stopped stroking himself now, hands gripping Khalil’s wrists as he rose and fell, rose and fell. Khalil bucked harder, wanting more, driving himself in as Ben drove himself down.

Ben picked up the pace then, finally, the noises coming out of him more urgent and needy. He reached for his cock but Khalil batted his hand away and started to stroke him himself, watching his face, shadowed and flickering in the dancing green light, as the tension built with each thrust and drop, Ben slamming down on him now, Khalil spearing him, both of them near and reaching for the push over the top. Khalil rubbed his thumb just under the head of Ben’s cock and that was all it took. Ben shouted, hands closing hard on Khalil’s wrists as his muscles locked, all but the ones encasing Khalil, which spasmed around him and pushed him into a whiteout of an orgasm, intense and electric as the sky above them.

When he opened his eyes again, Ben was curled over him, braced on his hands beside Khalil’s shoulders, dripping sweat and breathing hard, the sky above them still shimmering green. He felt himself softening and slipping from Ben, who felt it too and whimpered a little sadly. Khalil pulled him down into his arms, both of them wet and slick with sweat, Khalil’s chest spattered with Ben’s spunk. The air smelled—decadent: sex, sweat, hothouse flowers, warm earth in the middle of winter—and the sky above them was still glorious: spangled with the brightest stars, bits of the Milky Way, and twisting ribbons of green light. Ben snuggled in next to him and threw a leg over his hip, and they dozed together under the aurora, warm and content and sated.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The militia boys come up for sentencing, Jeff Robinson's trial starts, Ben regains something he'd lost and grapples with good fortune. NSFW.

The following few weeks before the hearings went by rapidly, between Ben’s job and Khalil’s lessons. They left the mat and comforter and pillows in the conservatory and went out on clear nights to stargaze or make love, and decided they needed a comfy chaise or daybed big enough for both of them and their shenanigans instead of a chair. Khalil found one reminiscent of a Roman couch, without sides and complete with bolsters, big enough to snuggle on, long enough for Khalil to stretch out on for a nap in the afternoon sun.

“If the villagers ever come for us with pitchforks and torches, this will be the room they use as evidence that I’m either running a bordello and/or corrupting their youth,” Khalil said when it was installed. “Manizha would be appalled.”

“I don’t think so,” Ben countered, posing provocatively on it. “I think she’d cheer you on. She wants you to be happy too, and if this makes you happy, it’s sure not hurting anybody else. And while it’s a bit decadent, it’s decadent in that prim and proper Victorian way that looks classic and innocent on the surface while whispering naughty things in your ear.”

“Rather like you, _ifrit,_ ” Khalil said, rolling him over and climbing on top, pinning his wrists to the couch. He dipped in to bestow what started as a chaste kiss and rapidly progressed to the sloppy making-out sort with tongue and teeth and spit and grinding until they were fumbling with each other’s flies and reaching inside each other’s jeans for a handful of hard cock. There was nothing slow or leisurely about it; it was more a competition to see who could get whom off first. Khalil’s handiwork won, though he was not far behind himself when Ben squeezed his cock in the throes of his orgasm. It was quick and dirty and _fun_. Trying to catch his breath, Khalil laughed and rubbed his nose against Ben’s. “You, me boyo, make me feel about 17 again.”

“Oh good. I’d like to get a lot of wear and tear out of you,” Ben said, putting his arms around Khalil’s neck and kissing him. “And we’ve now christened each other and the new daybed.”

“Well, a quick change of clothes fixes the one thing and I did order this upholstered in ‘performance’ velvet. You know: easy clean up if you have pets,” Khalil said with a not very suppressed smirk.

“Or vets, in our case,” Ben said “And that was certainly a performance.”

“I’d like an encore some time. Or a very long run for this particular show.”

“It’s always nice to get steady work in the theater,” Ben agreed.

They both broke up, chortling. “That’s terrible,” Khalil complained, not very seriously.

Ben cupped his face in one hand. “I love making you laugh. I love seeing you smile. I love you.”

“I love you too, boyo,” he said, nuzzling Ben’s cheek. “Thanks for making me laugh, for being you.”

Ben had discussed what to do about his father’s sentencing hearing with Alisa, his counselor, and decided after all to deliver a victim’s impact statement, though he didn’t much care for the “victim” part of it. She listened to him read it, offered suggestions while emphasizing that he knew what he wanted to say better than anyone else, and helped him rehearse it before the date. Khalil didn’t ask about it, merely said that if he wanted, he’d be there in the courtroom for him.

“Let me think about it,” Ben said, frowning. “Isn’t your trial the same day?”

“Later in the afternoon. I think the same judge is handling all five them. The other three sentencings are right after your father’s in the same courtroom.”

“Are you making a victim’s statement?” Ben asked. “I’m only doing the one for my father. The other’s only a misdemeanor anyway.”

“I don’t think so. I don’t feel particularly harmed by any of those assholes. I might with Robinson.”

“Yanno,” Ben said thoughtfully, “depending on how out you want to be, making one at Robinson’s might be a great opportunity to point out that we’re missing LGBT protection legislation in this state.”

“It might indeed. Good point. I’ll consider that. We’ll see what the evidence looks like first. If it includes the anti-gay slurs, I might have to say something, regardless of how out I want to be.”

“And Khalil, what the hell do I wear?”

They went over to the Circuit Court in the next town together in the tank, Ben being pretty sure he would not be up to driving afterwards. Khalil was glad they’d gotten the nice suit for him in Chicago, incongruous as it looked under his winter coat. He’d gotten his hair cut short again as well, not the jarhead cut but something neat and adult, though it had a tendency to fall over his eyes at odd moments. Khalil rather liked that. He braided his own hair back tight, so it too looked short and neat, and wore one of his own beautifully tailored suits, with a small American flag pinned to the right lapel and an equally unobtrusive U.S. Army-Retired pin on the other. He opted for his own winter parka over it all, instead of the not nearly warm enough camelhair Burberry, at which he cast a fond but sad look and put back in the closet.

They’d also discussed the likelihood of Ben’s mother being present too, and Khalil was both curious to meet her and hopeful that he had come far enough to make it less traumatic than it might have been earlier. Ben seemed grim about the prospect, and sure that she would side with his father, as she always had. And that was the deciding factor for having Khalil come with him to the courtroom.

And she was there, sitting at the front, not on the defendant’s side of the room, but on the prosecutor’s, which Khalil took as a hopeful sign. Beside him, Ben swallowed heavily and propelled himself toward her with what Khalil knew was an act of will. He followed at a slight distance and stopped near the end of the row behind them to give them some privacy, and thus didn’t really hear what was said, but he watched Ben’s face go from grim and determined, to surprise, then shock, then relief and pleasure. She reached out to touch his cheek and he dove in for a hug. Khalil felt himself tearing up a little as the hug went on and was startled by a hand on his own back. Adi and Marc stood in the row behind him, Marc in his sheriff’s uniform. It was Adi’s hand on his back. She nodded toward the two Kenners who were still firmly attached to each other.

“That’s a nice thing to see,” she murmured.

“So it is,” Khalil agreed. “You have anything to do with that?”

“I … might … have,” she admitted, smiling while Marc rolled his eyes in his usual _meddling do-gooders_ reaction. “Just a little. As well as Joanne and Siri and Garen’s mom, Louisa. And the folks at the women’s shelter.”

“She left him?” Khalil said in surprise. “That’s excellent. Let me know if she—”

“—needs help?” Adi smirked at him and his knee-jerk impulses, but it was a fond smirk, not one of Marc’s mocking ones. “Of course she does. We’ll suss it out later. I think Ben wants to introduce you.” She gave him a little push and he turned to see Ben beckoning him over.

Khalil went forward with not quite the same act of will but a reminder to himself to be kind; circumstances had changed and it was better to gather intelligence than go off half-cocked and regret it later.

“Khalil, this is my mom, Molly,” Ben said, looking far more eager and happier than Khalil expected to see him do in this room. That alone made up for much.

“Ms. Kenner,” Khalil said, sticking out a hand. She was, like Ben, not a big person, and she was where he’d gotten his complexion and red-gold hair, though hers had darkened to auburn with red highlights, streaked liberally with gray. She wore it now in a prim French twist that looked more elegant than the obviously secondhand wool skirt and cotton blouse she was wearing. It was hard to guess her age because she’d had a life that he suspected had aged her more than it should have and she still looked beaten down and as though she was too used to flinching. But her handshake was firm, her hands callused as her son’s, and she looked him right in the eye.

“Not for much longer,” she said with a tentative smile and more starch than he expected. “It’s just Molly for now, please. I’m so glad to meet you finally, Mr. Cahill. I’ve heard so many good things about you. And you’re making my son very happy.”

“Just Kal, please, then, Molly. And that’s the best part of this whole situation. He’s making me very happy too. I’m glad to finally meet you, too, though I wish the circumstances were better for all of us.”

“So do I, but sometimes the bad has to happen so the good may come.”

“Aye,” Khalil agreed, having seen it enough himself—and still not fucking liking the sentiment at all. “I hope things are changing for the better for you, too.”

“Thank you. And for Adam as well, though I can’t stay with him any longer.”

The Bailiff called them to order before Khalil had to comment on that, thank Christ and Allah. As he took his seat behind Ben, he was pleased to see a good crowd on their side of the room, in addition to Adi and Marc—Joanne and Duke; Siri and Garen and with them, a woman who looked enough like both of them to be their mother; Kit and Quin and their dad; Diana the florist as well as a few women he didn’t know who were probably from the shelter, there for Molly. There were a few stray militia members on the defendant’s side, but that was largely empty. The judge—Debra Billings, he knew from his research—was a Native American woman who had a record for sensible sentences where the law allowed. But his research had also revealed that the options for mentally ill defendants in this state were woefully inadequate. He had a good idea of what might happen long term and had shared that with Ben, who’d been none too happy about it. Khalil was more hopeful and already scheming; he liked a good challenge.

He would have liked to say that Adam Kenner looked like a new man when he came in, but nobody’s looks were improved by stay in a psych facility and then jail. What he looked was saner than he had the last time Khalil had seen him, or what he remembered of that. His suit was ill-fitting and shabby and he seemed, to his credit, ashamed of himself. Khalil felt a little sorry for him, but that was par for the course and he didn’t expect it of either Ben or Molly, who had much longer histories of violence with him.

The surprise of the day was that the charges Ben’s father was being sentenced for were not just the felony assault and battery against Ben, but also from a prior trial (which Khalil thought had probably triggered the second crime) for spouse abuse that Molly had brought against him with the help of the women’s shelter director. When the time for victim statements came, Molly stood up first and identified herself as Adam Kenner’s wife and began to read from the sheet of paper she held. Her voice and hands shook initially, but then grew stronger and steadier when Ben took her free hand.

“Adam Kenner was a good man when I married him, Your Honor, but over the course of our marriage, two things happened: he began to suffer from untreated mental illness and his paranoia led him into bad company. During the course of our marriage, he isolated both me and my son and physically and mentally abused us, and was encouraged in that behavior by the people he’d fallen in with. Despite that, I think the man underneath the illness and the bad influences still has good qualities, and he deserves the chance to find out what life is like with treatment and away from the fools who fed his illness and egged him on. I would ask that you help him get the treatment he needs when sentencing him. Thank you.”

 _Clear and succinct,_ Khalil thought as she sat again, _and right to the heart of the matter._ Ben hadn’t shared what he was going to say, so he was curious to see how it fit with Molly’s interpretation of events.

Ben took a deep breath and stood up as the judge asked if there were other statements. “My name is Benjamin Kenner and Adam Kenner is my father,” Ben began. He too had a written statement but didn’t refer to it throughout. The contrast between Ben, in his well-tailored suit and his father in the shabby one could not have been more stark. “I never knew a time with this man when I wasn’t afraid of him—either his temper, his strange behavior, or his fists. It took getting away from him, and finding a great therapist and a loving, supportive relationship to give me some perspective and realize that none of what I experienced as a child was normal or healthy, but that my father was not an evil man only a sick one. I won’t ask for clemency for him, because some of what he did was his own choice, but I agree with my mother that he needs treatment in the hope of getting some semblance of a decent life in the future, as well as to keep him from harming anyone else. I’d ask that you do everything you can to make sure he gets that treatment, in addition to whatever sentence you see fit to impose. Thank you, Your Honor.” Ben sat again and took his mother’s hand once more. Khalil leaned forward and put a hand on his shoulder, whispering “well done, you,” in his ear, as he gave Ben’s shoulder a squeeze. Ben gave him a wavering smile and patted his hand.

The judge asked Kenner if he had anything to say, but the response was a barely audible, “no, Your Honor,” spoken more to the top of the table than to the court. He looked contrite and thoroughly beaten, but it was hard to tell how much of that was show for the court and how much was real, Khalil thought. They’d see in the coming months.

The sentence, when handed down, contained no surprises at all. The pre-trial investigation had been pretty thorough, revealing a long pattern of abuse revealed by Molly’s hospital records, and thanks to the psychiatric eval Marc and his local cronies had referred Kenner for, Ben’s father ended up with a five year sentence with possibility for supervised release, and mandatory treatment while incarcerated. And with a bang of the gavel, it was over. At least for now.

Ben and Molly hugged each other silently while the Bailiff called the next case that was the first of the militia who’d attacked Khalil and Ben. Khalil leaned forward and gave the keys to the tank to Ben and whispered, “in case you want them. Go take your mother for coffee, boyo. I’ll be fine here watching these assholes with Marc and Adi. And fine at the trial later, too, if you want to stay out. Go.” He pecked Ben’s temple and leaned back, nodding as he and Molly both smiled at him as they exited the row.

The rest of the sentencing cases went relatively quickly, as court proceedings go, with pretty much the outcome that Marc had predicted for misdemeanor assaults: a year’s probation for the asshole for whom this was a first offense and 6 months in the county jail plus three years probation for the double dipper who came after Khalil, and a year’s probation for the first offender whose jaw Ben had broken. And a hairy eyeball from both Marc and Khalil on their way out. None of them could meet either Khalil or Marc’s gaze.

The crowd in the courtroom had thinned out a bit with Ben and Molly’s departure. He found many of them in the hallway, clustered around the two of them. As Khalil approached, Siri’s family peeled off with parting hugs for both Ben and Molly, followed by the Nikkaris and the rest.

“Heading for lunch, at least some of them,” Ben explained. “Some will be back for the trial this afternoon.”

“I’d like to be there,” Molly said a little shyly, “if you don’t mind. Jeff was always telling Adam he didn’t beat me or Benjamin often enough. You have no idea how happy I was to hear he’d gotten a taste of his own medicine. Not particularly nice, or Christian, but there it is,” she admitted unapologetically, with a glint in her eye and a hint of Ben’s wryer smiles. “And you’ve been such a support to Ben that I’d like to show some for you, too.”

“I’ve no objections at all,” Khalil replied. “Thank you. It sounds like it might be quite entertaining, if what Ben suspects is true.”

They headed to lunch, to a little diner up the street that was full of court officers and people involved in proceedings, used to serving a hurried crowd. It was loud and surprisingly boisterous, given the gravity of some of the patrons. Molly and Ben ordered lightly, but Khalil found he was suddenly starving and consumed his burger and fries with only a few losses of the latter to Ben, who was drinking Vernor’s to settle his stomach. Molly ate like a bird and she was thin enough that Khalil wanted to take her home and feed her up. They didn’t talk much, because of the noise, but there were things percolating under the surface that wanted to be said, and he caught Ben and Molly sharing happy and fond glances more than once. It lightened his heart.

The ADA had gone over their testimony the week before and it had all seemed fairly straightforward then. But with Robinson representing himself and not seeming to have a witness list, who knew what would happen, the ADA cautioned. Khalil and Ben missed the opening fireworks, along with Marc and Kevin Halla, the official arresting officer, and only heard about it secondhand later, sequestered from the courtroom as witnesses when they returned. Will Adamski was waiting for them beforehand too, to let him know that their side of the room was packed with VFW folks including Erik and Duke, there to support him, which touched Khalil deeply.

Marc had told him that Sovereign Citizens like Robinson had been clogging the courts with impenetrable and irrelevant paperwork in their attempt to wriggle out from under the laws of the land for quite some time now. Khalil had done a little research on his own about them, and found their conspiracy theory beliefs and magical thinking the worst example of literary analysis he’d ever seen in his life. If Robinson was true to form, before the trial had even begun, he’d filed a gazillion extraneous and poorly worded motions claiming exemption from established law by virtue of a convoluted consequence of end of the gold standard and the use of capital letters on legal documents. Khalil thought it odd he’d opted to have his case decided by the judge alone rather than a jury, if that were true. But then, Robinson wouldn’t have to convince 12 other people he was smarter than the entire US legal system. He doubted the judge would be impressed, though.

The four of them dithered on the uncomfortable chairs outside, only Kevin and Marc seeming sanguine about it, not speaking and listening to the occasional outbursts and rumbles from inside, until Kevin was finally called in to begin the testimony. Khalil got up and began to pace. Then a few minutes later, one of the court officers finally called him in.

Khalil was stunned to find the courtroom packed despite Will’s assurance. The rows behind the prosecutor were crowded with VFW members as well as Adi and Molly, Tom Nikkari, Joanne and Duke, Siri, students from the dojo and the other senseis, Kevin Halla now sitting with his dad, and Will, who gave him a wink as they caught each others’ eye. Robinson’s side was filled with militia members. Ben was right; this was going to be a circus, if it hadn’t been already.

He was sworn in and took the stand, and the ADA led him through some basic facts about himself—when he’d moved here, his service record, his consultant work, his black belt—and then into his description of the night outside the dojo.

“What did Mr. Robinson say when you offered to sign him up for the next class?” the ADA asked him finally.

“He said, ‘you’re the one who’s going to learn a lesson, raghead faggot.’” Khalil answered calmly, to some murmuring in the courtroom, which the judge silenced.

“Then what?” the ADA prompted.

“He came after me with the baseball bat he had in his hands.”

“Just to be clear, he attacked you with the bat?”

“He tried to. I stopped him and disarmed him, and tried to get him to stay down so I could deal with the other two who were coming after me, too.”

“That’s when he sustained the broken kneecap and torn rotator cuff?”

“Probably,” Khalil clarified, “in the struggle to get out of the hold I had him in. That’s not an unusual consequence of trying to get out of that hold. I had to kick his knee to get him to stay down, then twist his arm to turn him over so he couldn’t get up.” Robinson, he noted to himself, was using a cane and still in a sling from surgeries and looked ready to come after him all over again.

The ADA played the dash and security cam footage on a tablet for the judge, since there was no jury to show them to, and entered them into evidence. Then he turned back to Khalil and asked, “Why would Mr. Robinson call you a raghead, Mr. Cahill?”

“My first name is a good hint, but probably because my mother was an Iranian exile and Muslim. He’d called me that before. He knew my ancestry from our first meeting, just after I bought the Kenner’s house.”

“Where was that meeting?”

“At the local bar, Brodie’s. I bought Mr. Robinson and some of his friends a beer, to introduce myself to the neighbors. My background got mentioned in the course of the conversation.”

“How did that happen?”

“I think I mentioned I’d served in Afghanistan and spoke Pashto and then I was asked outright if I was a Muslim. I don’t remember by whom.”

“And what was your reply?”

“That I was brought up in both Christian and Muslim faiths but wasn’t a practicing anything as far as religion went.”

“You said he’d called you that before, in the course of that evening at Brodie’s, prior to the incident at the dojo?”

“As we were heading home. He tried to jump me in the parking lot of the bar and said ‘go back where you came from, raghead.’”

“Omitting the second part of the slur.”

“That time, yes.”

“So your familial background is Iranian.”

“My mother would say Persian, but yes. Half Persian—Iranian—and half Irish.”

“Thank you, Mr. Cahill. Your witness, Mr. Robinson.”

Khalil turned to face Robinson, who was fumbling one-handed with the papers on the table. Their eyes met when Robinson looked up and he gave Khalil one of the nastiest grins he’d ever seen, reminiscent of the main torturer whose mercies he’d endured under the Taliban. It sent a chill down Khalil’s back.

“You’re a U.S., citizen, that right?” he barked.

“I am.”

“That’s funny, because the kids of diplomats who are born here can only be legal residents. So you’re not really a citizen, are you, _Khalil_?”

The judge banged her gavel. “Show some respect to the witness, Mr. Robinson, or I’ll have your questions stricken. And you’d better show how this is relevant, right quick. Go ahead, Mr. Cahill.”

“You’re right about the children of diplomats born in the US,” Khalil answered coolly. “If they’re accredited by the State Department on what’s called the Blue List, their children can only apply to be legal residents if they’re born here. But my parents weren’t on the U.S. Blue List. They were never officially stationed here by the Irish government. My mother, who was then stationed in Canada with my father, was visiting her brother in New York for a funeral, as a private citizen of Ireland, when I was born somewhat prematurely. I’d be happy to produce my birth certificate.”

That deflated all the bluster in Robinson, who’d clearly thought he’d caught Khalil out in something. It was all he could do not to smirk from the witness stand in retaliation. Robinson mumbled “that’s all,” and looked down at his papers again.

“You can step down, Mr. Cahill,” the judge told him.

Adi scooted over in the row behind the prosecutor, where she and Molly had saved seats for him, Ben, and Marc, and Khalil joined them. Ben was called and sworn in next, looking serious and a little jittery at first. But by the time the ADA had led him through the introductions and his background, he was as cool as Khalil had been on the stand.

“He looks so grown-up,” Adi whispered, she and Molly beaming at that fact.

“Because he is,” Khalil whispered back.

Ben’s testimony was less detailed than Khalil’s, but backed up everything he’d said.

“Why did you phone Sheriff Winston instead of 911?” the ADA asked him.

“We had just seen him at the dojo, and we had a previous arrangement with him because of the earlier incidents and threats, and we weren’t sure what was going to happen or where or when. The other incidents had been outside the township, on our property or nearby, so they were in Marc—Sheriff Winston’s jurisdiction.”

“What incidents were those?”

“Khalil had been jumped by Robinson in Brodie’s parking lot, and his SUV keyed—”

“Sorry to interrupt. When was this?”

“The night he and Robinson first met, back before Khalil was living here permanently.”

“Thank you. Go on,” the ADA said.

“We had our mailbox shot up and knocked over four or five times, our driveway reflectors knocked over, our garbage cans tipped over and emptied on the road and in the driveway, our porch screen was sliced up, Khalil was forced off the road while he was running by someone who yelled ‘raghead faggot’ at him, and our greenhouse windows were soaped with anti-gay and anti-Muslim slurs.”

 _Well done,_ Khalil thought. _That’s three times it’s gotten mentioned, and we’ve got a pattern of hate now._

The ADA handed him over to Robinson, who looked just as angry as he had when grilling Khalil. Ben, by contrast, look just as cool as Khalil had. Khalil could tell he was boiling inside, just by the shape of his eyebrows, and was proud of him for reining that in.

“You forgot to mention you stole my dog,” Robinson said, “and that’s why your reflectors got knocked over.” The courtroom cracked up, even Khalil, at the implicit admission of guilt. Ben looked like he could hardly believe what he was hearing. The judge just shook her head and tried valiantly not to roll her eyes.

“Is there a question there, Mr. Robinson?” she asked.

“Just setting the record straight, Your Honor,” he said without either irony or awareness. “No questions.”

They broke for the day then, with a 10 AM start in the morning. The ADA said he figured they’d be done by noon. Robinson wasn’t making any real effort now that his Sovereign Citizen crap had been curtailed—the fireworks that they had missed at the beginning of that afternoon—and the judge had the evidence from the cameras, which really couldn’t be interpreted any other way than Robinson taking a swing at Khalil’s head with a baseball bat and Khalil defending himself.

“Dumbass should have gotten a plea,” Marc grumbled.

“Bitch and moan,” Khalil said. “Not like you were going to sleep in tomorrow or anything.” They were still in the hallway outside the courtroom, greeting and thanking supporters.

“No, but I could actually be doing some work, instead of sitting on my ass here. Pisses me off that we’re wasting the judge’s time too.”

“Every dog must have his day,” Khalil said philosophically. “It’s his right as a citizen to make a fool of himself and cock up his own defense. Let’s go get some dinner and you can tell Ben and I what we missed this afternoon.”

Molly begged off, saying she needed to get home, which was still the shelter for now.

“I’ll call you,” Ben said, and enveloped her in another hug that both of them pulled back from after many minutes and with reluctance. “I love you,” he said.

She went up on her toes and kissed his forehead. “I’m so proud of you, Benjamin. I love you too. We’ll talk more, soon.” And she went off with one of the women, the shelter director Adi said later, who’d been there this morning and come back to pick her up, after Ben had called her.

“Steaks at our house?” Khalil said. “We’ll pick up some extra salad greens on the way home.”

So that’s where they ended up, Adi with a captive audience for her recounting of the shenanigans of Robinson and his “insane clown posse comitatus,” as she called it, before the testimony.

“So it started with Robinson and his crowd refusing to rise for the judge until the Bailiff hauled him to his feet and gave such a stinkeye to the rest of them, with his hand on his sidearm, that they got up, too,” Adi said as Khalil put Marc’s steak on the grill before everyone else’s. True to form, Marc liked his good and dead, while the rest of them preferred juicy and rare. Potatoes were already in the oven, roasting, and wine and beer had been opened and distributed. Ben was putting together the salad while Adi and Marc sat at the bar.

“Then Robinson opened with his _I’m not subject to the laws of this corrupt government_ bullshit gambit and the judge tromped on that right away,” Adi went on. “He’d barely gotten it out of his mouth when she was whaling on the desk with that gavel. Then she told him to shut up and sit down—not quite like that, but not a lot more polite—and gave him a ten minute capsule law school lecture complete with references and footnotes and 27 8-by-10 color glossies with circles and arrows and a paragraph on the back of each one—” and even Ben, though he didn’t get the reference, was cracking up at this point, “—about the fact that citizens don’t get to interpret the Constitution or cherrypick it without context or decide what laws they have to obey and which they don’t. She told him the interpretation is up to the Supreme Court, ‘of which you, sir, are not a member, nor qualified or certified to argue before.’” Her imitation of Judge Billings was spot on, Khalil thought. “The look on Judge Billings’s face would have frozen hydrogen, I swear.”

When the salad was done, Ben set the table, one ear still cocked to Adi’s story.

“And of course the militia boys don’t like that and they’re muttering and grumbling. So Judge Billings bangs the gavel again and instructs the Bailiff to remove anyone who doesn’t zip it in the next 30 seconds and call in reinforcements if he needs to. And her parting shot to them is, ‘If my people are subject to the laws of our colonizers off the reservation, then you better bet the colonizers all are too.’ And she told the ADA go on with his opening statement. Which, by the way, was clear and concise and not a bit showy. I’m sure if he’d had a jury it might have been different, but he made a very good case that the accused started it and you were defending yourself and that it was a hate-motivated crime. I don’t think Robinson had a Plan B when Billings vetoed his Sovereign Citizen stuff and said she wasn’t even going to entertain it. He looked like somebody’d shot his horse out from under him.”

“Then unless he comes up with some shite overnight, we might indeed be done by lunch tomorrow. That would be grand. Then I won’t have to think about that asshole again until sentencing,” Khalil said, flipping Marc’s steak.

“I thought he had you there with that stuff about diplomat’s kids. I didn’t know that,” Marc admitted.

“No, most people don’t. He was right, too. If Mama and Da had been posted to the U.S. when I was born, my whole life would likely have been very different. I’d always thought it was a bit magical having dual citizenship, especially in Amerikay. That ‘Truth, Justice, and the American Way’ nonsense is very powerful when you’re young. I always felt a certain affinity with Yanks that I didn’t feel with either my mother’s or father’s countries. I don’t know why. I suppose I never lived in either of them long enough—or at all in Iran, beyond a few side trips courtesy of the Army—to learn to feel either Irish or Persian. But America was like this omnipresent dream that I’d magically gotten to be part of. There were American influences everywhere I lived.”

“Well, you can’t get much more American than joining the U.S. Army,” Marc said.

“Aye, which is probably one reason I did it, in the end. And you just did it to avoid a jail sentence, I’d heard,” Khalil added with an innocent look in Marc’s direction.

Marc scowled at him and Adi laughed. “One too many bar fights. Not that being the Army stopped that, apparently,” she said, elbowing him.

Ben was leaning on the bar, smiling, watching them banter and tease. Adi leaned over and ruffled his hair, and he leaned back and straightened it up again, mildly affronted. “You’re very quiet. Everything okay?” she said.

“Yeah,” he said, leaning over again. “Just thinking.”

“About your mum?” Khalil said, taking the potatoes out of the oven and putting the other three steaks on the grill.

Ben nodded. “That wasn’t at all what I expected.”

“Good way or bad way,” Adi asked.

“Good way, definitely!” he assured her, smiling. “I’m just not used to things going right with my family. I mean, I pretty much thought I’d lost her, that she’d stick with him like she always did.”

Adi reached across the bar and took one of Ben’s hands. “I think what your father did to you, and how you reacted to that finally gave her the courage to do what she needed to do and get out. He hit her once too often after they’d abandoned the house. She waited until he’d gone out on a job one day and then called the women’s shelter to find out where they were and walked through the trails to get to them with the clothes on her back and a few bucks she’d saved.”

Ben nodded, squeezing Adi’s hand and then taking one of the full plates from Khalil, who handed the others to Marc and Adi and now picked up his own. “She told me that. I wish it hadn’t taken either of us so long to get to that point,” he said, heading to the table and sitting down.

The next short while was taken up with enjoying the food. Khalil had been worried Ben’s appetite might have been ruined by the drama of the day, but he seemed to feel like Khalil had at lunch, and felt now: starved and needing to refuel. So for the next few minutes, there was not much sound but the clink of silverware and dishes and requests to pass the salad or wine or butter, and no need to fill the silence among good friends.

Afterwards, they piled the plates on the counter to be dealt with later, and retreated to the living room with coffee.

“So,” Khalil began, “how do we help Molly?”

For once, Marc failed to roll his eyes, and Khalil suspected he’d seen too many domestic abuse cases in the course of his job to not take Molly’s situation as seriously as the others.

Ben shook his head. “I don’t think she’ll take any. I offered to help her get on her feet and find a place of her own, even just get her stuff out of the new place they were living. She said she’s got nothing there she wants to have because it would only remind her of the past. And she wouldn’t let me give her money. She did give me her set of keys though, the ones she had made on the sly. She said I should at least get my father’s tools out of there.”

“Aye, it’ll be hard for him to get on his feet again after prison without his tools,” Khalil agreed. “We can put things in storage for him. But that’s for later; the state’s taking care of him. Right now, we need to do something for Molly.”

“She’s only working at the florist’s part-time because that’s all Diana can afford to pay someone, and it’s only minimum wage,” Adi said. “That’s why she’s still at the shelter. She’s got no college degree or certificates, so finding employment is pretty hard. And she’s got no transportation to get there if she did.”

Out came Khalil’s notebook. “She’s got a roof over her head and food for now,” Khalil said, mostly to himself, “but I imagine she needs clothing and we know she needs a car,” he added, starting the inevitable list. “Does she even drive?”

“Yeah, she does,” Ben confirmed. “We all drove that damn truck.”

“Wait, that must still be at the new house, right?” Marc said. “Your father won’t be using it. She’s still married to him so she should take that. There’ll be a divorce settlement anyway.”

“She might not even want that,” Ben said doubtfully. “It might need work too. I can take a look at it though and see how it’s running. That was one of my jobs too, keeping that piece of crap on the road.”

“Good,” Khalil said. “We’ll do that when we clear things out to put in storage. Ben, if she won’t take money or loans or anything from you, you can still buy her gifts.”

“Yes,” Adi said, excitedly. “You can slip her a gift card to Target, buy her a nice coat. She needs almost everything, but I’ll find out what’s really pressing and what sizes she wears.”

“Perfect,” Ben said, looking relieved.

“Do you think she’d be willing to take a few classes?” Khalil asked.

“She’s already doing that,” Adi confirmed. “The shelter has some basic computer use classes and she’s been working hard on those. But again, she can’t get to anything else right now.”

“So transportation and clothing are the first necessities,” Khalil confirmed. “Ben and I will take care of that between us, eh, boyo? Does she need a lawyer for the divorce?”

“I think she’s going the do-it-yourself route,” Adi replied, “with the help of the shelter. They’re pretty experienced in that, and they’ll help her get as much as she can. Though if Adam decides to fight her on it, she could probably use one.”

“Do we have any idea what his assets are?” Khalil asked, looking at Ben.

“He always kept us pretty much in the dark about that,” Ben said, “and he was tighter than the paper on the wall. We got clothing and food when we needed it, but nothing else. But he built this house and the materials weren’t cheap. Pretty sure he paid cash for those, too. I think the land was already in his family and had been for a long time.”

“They didn’t buy again,” Marc said. “They were renting after the move, but it was paid up through the next six months. So at the very least, he’s got the cash from the house sale sitting somewhere. Molly should get half of that, at least.”

“That gives us some breathing room, and a start for her,” Khalil said. “But Molly might need a lawyer to find out what else he’s got, and get her fair share of it.”

“There are a couple in town that handle divorce cases,” Marc said. “I’ll give you their names.”

“It might take some convincing to make her believe she’s owed that, and that she should take it,” Ben said, and Adi nodded agreement.

“I think that’s our job,” Adi said, nodding in Ben’s direction. “Louisa and Joanne and I are working the feminist angle, talking with her about how unpaid women’s labor supports the patriarchy blah blah and how much all the ‘services’ she performed as a housewife would cost if you had to pay for them. The shelter’s a good place for that kind of consciousness raising too, and they offer counseling, though I don’t know if she’s taking that. But mostly it’s getting her to see her own worth after Adam beat her down for so many years. You know how hard your mom worked, Ben, and your father did nothing to make her life any easier except buy her a few appliances, and treated her like a worthless, second-class citizen on top of it. I think she needs to hear that from you, too, and hear that she deserves what’s hers by right.”

“Too right,” Ben muttered. “She worked her ass off, and for what? Black eyes and broken bones from that bastard.”

Khalil closed the notebook up and put it away. “Right. So we’ve got an action plan. I’ll look into the lawyer and get him started finding Adam’s assets. Ben, you see about the truck and some gifts for your mother, and Adi’s feminist brigade and you will work on convincing her she’s owed at least half from that marriage.”

“Maybe I can talk her into some counseling, too. And I’ll have a look at what’s in the house, while I’m over there,” Ben added, “and get the tools out before somebody steals them. And get a storage space rented.”

“That’s a good start, then,” Adi said, looking pleased.

“And not a word from you about meddling do-gooders, Marc.” Khalil couldn’t resist poking the bear.

“Not this time,” he said, and confirmed Khalil’s suspicions. “I saw the pre-trial report that had the list of Molly’s injuries on it. If your old man wasn’t already in jail, I’d kick his ass myself. I’m sorry you both had to endure that.”

“Yeah, me too, Marc. Thanks,” Ben said. “And thanks, Adi, for helping both of us out the way you have.”

“That’s what good neighbors do, my friend,” Adi said, getting up with her empty coffee cup and dropping a kiss on Ben’s head and one on Khalil’s too, while she could reach it. “I won’t offer to help you clean up because you never let us, Kal, but thanks for dinner. C’mon, Sheriff. It’s been a long day of do-gooding. Let’s go home.”

Marc and Adi headed out after hugs had been exchanged and Ben collected the coffee cups and started loading the dishwasher, while Khalil cleaned the grill and stove.

“Speaking of assets, boyo,” he said while scrubbing, “I haven’t asked you about yours because it’s really not my business, but if you need some help—”

“Thanks, Khalil. It feels kind of weird talking about my ‘assets,’ since they’re coming from your payroll. You’ve pretty much seen everything I’ve bought with them though. I’ve been saving everything I could, since I’ll need to pay for living expenses at school, so it’s probably a good thing I didn’t go this year after all. I can show you statements.”

“Not unless you want to. I just don’t want you to wipe out your savings helping your mum. What happens to that money after it leaves my accounts and enters yours is none of my business, otherwise. We’ve discussed the fact that you’re my builder/caretaker/architect on retainer, and I see what you do to earn that. I’m going to miss that when you’re off at school. I’ll have to get off my lazy arse and start doing some of the upkeep myself,” he said with a grin in Ben’s direction.

“But I’ve been letting you operate under a mistaken idea,” he said, turning back to the stove. “Let me explain how me paying for your education will work: I’ll do the same thing for you that I’ve done for Manizha and Marc and Adi’s girls, which is set up a trust that you can draw on for tuition and books and living expenses and travel, including study abroad if you want that. It will be large enough to get you started in life after graduation, or go on to more education if you want, and I’ll add to it if necessary as I did for Manizha so she could go on to grad school. Being a student is a full time job and you should be able to concentrate on doing that instead of worrying about money or work or paying the rent. It’s not a lavish amount, so you’ll have to budget, but it won’t be an amount that forces you to pinch pennies or live in a shithole with 15 roommates, either. And you’ll have whatever you’ve saved yourself on top of that, to do with as you like, obviously. So if you have things you’d like to spend that money on now, like a cashmere sweater or two,” Khalil said with a wry smile, “do it. And take care of your mum. I’ll pitch in where I can, and maybe we can find some ways to work around her not wanting help.”

There was a loud and odd silence behind him, and Khalil turned to see Ben gaping at him, dirty plate in one hand. “I … what? Are you fucking kidding me?” Ben said, leaning back hard against the counter. “Khalil—Christ! I feel like I’ve just won the lottery. That’s, like, some kind of six-figure trust. I don’t—I’ve got no idea how to manage that much money.”

“More than that, likely, with tuition the way it is now and big city living expenses,” Khalil confirmed. “You don’t have to manage it, if you don’t want to, at least not alone. I can help you do that, or you can leave it to the money managers. But you ought to learn to at least not be intimidated by that kind of money. Your project budgets are going to be that large, eventually, if not bigger. But Manizha reacted pretty much the same way you did; she started with even less than you have—virtually nothing—and for the first couple of years I managed the trust for her. She got fed up with that, being Manizha, and took some accounting classes and starting doing it herself. I think that’s one of the things that got her interested in economics, the transfer of wealth between myself and her,” Khalil said sardonically.

Ben set the dirty plate down on the counter and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I think I really hadn’t grasped the kind of money you have, Khalil, to hear you just casually talk about handing over a seven figure trust to someone you just met, like, a year ago. You don’t act like the rich boobs who come up here with their Land Rovers and Hummers and swan around like they’re better than the backwoods hicks who live here year round. You don’t live like them, either, so I forget how much money you have. I know we’ve had this conversation about your philosophy of money, but every now and then it just sort of kicks me in the head that you’re not just talking about a higher tax bracket than people around here. You could buy and sell pretty much this whole town, couldn’t you?”

Khalil was silent while he washed his hands and dried them at the sink. Then he turned around and leaned back against it with his hands in his pockets. “I realize I haven’t been very transparent about that before now, have I? I should just show you my own statements, so you know what my net worth is. I don’t want to be like your father and keep you in the dark about that, since I consider them both of ours. But I haven’t made that step yet, either, to give you access to them.”

Ben looked panicked then and shook his head. “Nope nope nope nope. I do _not_ want to know what your net worth is. I do not want access to your money. I’m having a hard enough time just letting myself accept the gift you’re giving me for my education. We do not know each other that well yet, Khalil, however much I love you, or however much you love me.”

Khalil was surprised and a little hurt, which Ben immediately recognized. “Look, this is not about you, yourself. I—” He ran his hands through his hair, fisting them there briefly, then crossed his arms. “I’m not sure I can explain this. I know you’ve never had to worry about money, but you understand, intellectually, what it’s like to have to worry about it. Better than most rich people, I’m pretty sure. But as much as you get what it’s like to have nothing to your name, like Manizha and me, starting out on our own, I don’t think you can grasp what it’s like emotionally. What it does to you. It’s fucking scarring, Khalil,” Ben said a little savagely.

Khalil shook his head. “No, I probably can’t really understand the emotional part of it,” he agreed, “you’re right. All I can do is empathize.”

“It’s not even that,” Ben insisted. “You do empathize. But when you’ve had to ask for everything—food, clothing, notebooks, pens and pencils, a fucking toy, an ice cream cone—and been told no, or to make do, or worse, haven’t had anybody but yourself to ask, you always have this sense of teetering on the edge of disaster, and sometimes you fall over that edge and are terrified day and night of what’s going to happen next, how you’re going to get out of this. And sometimes you’re so goddamn broke that you’re actually teetering on the edge of death, and sometimes you think that might be the only way out—” Ben stopped abruptly and turned away, leaning hard against the counter, hands gripping the edges until his knuckles whitened. Khalil shoved his own hands deeper into his pockets, fisting them there.

“You don’t forget that, when you come back from that edge,” Ben said finally, in a low voice, still not looking at him. “When you’re doing okay again, you’re still waiting for that other shoe to drop, to lose it all again. There’s never enough. I just cracked five figures in my savings account last month. I’ve got a truck of my own, a home, a couple of jobs, the tools to make a living right now if I needed to, and probably even get myself through school if I had to. I’ve got good clothes—and you know, I still wake up in a sweat about those clothes, Khalil. I’m glad I got them, I’m glad you talked me into them, but spending that kind of money on clothes is still really hard. You joke about the cashmere sweaters, but I don’t know if I’ll ever buy one for myself. Ever. Not because I don’t deserve them, but because in the back of my head, there’s still homeless Obi yelling, _you stupid fuck, how much food could you buy with that?_ ”

Khalil knew Ben wasn’t angry with him or even at the fact that he had money and Ben hadn’t, but he still wanted to find a large hole somewhere and pull it in after himself. Who the fuck did he think he was, swanning into people’s lives and playing Lady Bountiful without a goddamn clue of what it was like to live like Ben and Manizha had. He’d seen a shitload of suffering in his travels; his parents had never shielded him from that in their diplomatic postings, wanting him to know that he was privileged and lucky, not special or personally deserving of the advantages he had. Twenty years in the army in poor parts of the world had only hammered that home more deeply. Despite that, despite his long relationship with Manizha, no one had ever spoken about that gap between him and most of the world in the same way, not even Manizha, who was usually so quick to prod him and so eloquent on the subject of poverty.

“I guess what I’m saying,” Ben went on, turning around again and hugging himself a little tighter, and avoiding Khalil’s gaze, “is that I’m afraid that if I know how much you’ve got, it’s just going to piss me off, put a barrier between us that I don’t want. I don’t think I’m ready to know that, Khalil. It hasn’t been long enough since I let you save me. I don’t want to hate you for that. And I want to love you for who you are, not what you have. Does that make any sense?”

Khalil walked the few steps to Ben and took his face in his hands. “It does. I forget it hasn’t been that long. I feel like I’ve always known you. But you’re right: we’re still learning about each other, figuring each other out. You’re right that a lot of your experience is not—available to me, I guess is the best word. I’ll never know what you’ve known, you or Manizha, unless there’s a zombie apocalypse.” Ben laughed at that, and Khalil’s hands dropped to his shoulders. “It’s good you reminded me of that, because, you know, Marc’s not so wrong about do-gooders. It can become a drug if you’re not careful, and the next thing you know, you think you’re a minor godling, or a major one, with control of people’s lives. Money should give you freedom, without enslaving other people along the way. I hope you and Manizha put a stake in my heart if I ever get like that.”

“I doubt that’s going to be an issue with you, but if it makes you feel better, I promise to put you out of your misery,” Ben said with a wry smile. He took a deep breath and was clearly screwing his courage to the sticking point. Khalil loved that in him, that whatever challenge arose, he’d take it on—and that he knew when to back away from one. “So, okay, I’ll get over my fear of large stacks of greenbacks of my own. But you’ll have to walk me through it for a while. I’ve just barely managed the reconciliation of the checkbook.”

“That’s a good start. You might eventually want to take an accounting class too, especially if you’re going to go into business for yourself.”

“I’m sure it’s good advice,” Ben agreed, and put his arms around Khalil, resting his head against Khalil’s chest and let out a gust of air. “Jesus, what a day. So fucking much drama.”

Khalil closed his arms around him and rubbed his chin against the top of Ben’s head, then buried his nose in the soft strands. “Some good things, too, though. I’m glad your mum got herself out,” he murmured, “that you didn’t lose her, boyo. We’ll do what we can to see she gets a better life now.”


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Family and firearms! What could go wrong? (See notes at the end this time.)

When they arrived at court the next morning, the ADA informed them that Robinson had taken a plea after all and neither of them were needed. Because of his prior record, he would probably end up with what the ADA had initially offered him: five years for the assault charge served concurrently with two years for the hate crime, followed by three years probation, and a $10,000 restitution fine. The latter surprised Khalil and he doubted he’d ever see it, but the ADA told him there was no way to weasel out of it without more jail time. Marc suggested he funnel it into a charity, which seemed like a good idea. He was sure the Southern Poverty Law Center could use it, or the ACLU. So that was that, at least until the actual sentencing, at which Khalil assured the ADA he’d be giving a Victim’s Impact Statement.

Marc headed back to work and Khalil took himself home to begin talking to lawyers about finding Adam’s assets. He’d left Ben at home that morning, or rather left him to go to work, since he’d rearranged his schedule with the architect so he could testify in Khalil’s case. He knew Ben was eager to have a look at his father’s truck to see if it was roadworthy for Molly, but far less eager to get inside the rental house to rescue his father’s tools. Ben had said he’d do a drive-by that evening on the way home, to get an estimate of the storage space he’d need to rent, and they could take a fuller look in daylight on Thursday.

He’d spent an hour on the phone with lawyers around town, before setting up an appointment with one for Friday to talk about digging out Adam’s assets for Molly. He and Ben would start an inventory on Thursday. Khalil already had a new notebook for “Molly Matters,” with their action plan list front and center in it.

He was still catching up on the day’s emails when one from Manizha dropped into his box.

_Manizha Tareen <M.Tareen_ _@lse.ac.uk > 7:26 PM  
to Khalil Cahill_

_My Dear Big Brother,_

_I’m very excited to tell you that I submitted my thesis and viva paperwork today. Some time in the next three months, I will be defending my thesis and hopefully graduating in July! I may be “jumping the gun” (or is it “jumping the broom”? so many expressions in English about jumping. You are very jumpy people.) but I am hoping that you and Little Brother Ben will come and watch me collect my diploma in London. I hope both of you have been well and not frozen to death in that deep freeze you are living in now. Brrrrrr! And I hope to see you in London this summer._

_I also wanted to tell you that I think I have found someone interested in working with you on your foundation. Helen finished her thesis last year and has been working at a non-profit NGO since then, but not finding it very satisfying, and frankly the work is beneath her. She’s absolutely brilliant and very savvy in terms of both management and application of wealth. I’m sure she would do a stellar job for you. When I described what you were looking for, she sounded very intrigued, and I have given her your contact details. Expect to hear from her some time next week, via email._

_Much love to both of you,_

_Manizha_

_Col. K.L. Cahill, U.S. Army (ret.) <KLCahill@gmail.com> 2:31 PM  
to Manizha_

_My Dear Manizha,_

_That’s fantastic news,_ shirina _! I cannot convey how very proud of you I am. Such a long journey it’s been for you, filled with hard work that I hope is going to bring you great satisfaction, and a rewarding job and set the capitalists trembling in fear. I’m sure you’re not jumping the gun by inviting us to graduation, as I fully expect you’ll walk away from your viva with honors. And yes of course Ben and I will be there. I wouldn’t miss it for anything. Keep us apprised of dates. We’ll probably make a vacation out of it._

_You’ll be glad to know that we’ve pretty much wrapped up the legal cases involved with the militia here, and with Ben’s father. The idiot who started it all is getting several years in jail because of his prior record and a $10K fine. Ben’s father is going to be in jail for a few years too, but getting the psychiatric treatment he needs as well. Ben reunited with this mother at the courtroom; it turned out that she’d left his father and charged him with spouse abuse, so that added to the sentence he’ll be serving. We’re in the process now of getting her divorced from him and set up as an independent woman._

_I have an odd question to ask of you, one that you needn’t reply to if you’d rather not, that stems out of a discussion Ben and I have been having. I’m pretty certain you have a good idea of my net worth, though I don’t think I’ve ever told you outright. Has that felt like a barrier of some kind between us? I hope that you’ve always been honest with me and will continue to be, but again, you needn’t answer if it makes you too uncomfortable to do so._

_And many thanks for your help with staffing this amorphous foundation of mine about which I have not much more than vague ideas. I’m looking forward to speaking with your friend._

_Much love,_

_Khalil_

_Manizha Tareen <M.Tareen_ _@lse.ac.uk > 8:20 PM  
to Khalil Cahill_

_My Dearest Khalil,_

_That is an odd question, and I am not sure why you are asking it, or if the answer I will give you will help any, but I do not mind answering. Personally, the answer is no. I admit that at one point I became curious about how much money you were hoarding, and discovered that you were on the same list as several minor Saudi princelings. I was—I will not say “shocked”—but surprised, because you are not the typical stupidly rich person, an opinion I have affirmed as I have grown up and met some of those same princelings. But I have known you since I was a child, when you were in the army, and the only difference I saw between you and the people in my village was that you had an inherent authority (though I could not have explained that then) that you exercised with compassion but also the wrath of Allah where it was needed. I do think that authority and self-confidence is one thing that having access to the amount of money you do produces in people, whether warranted or not. In your case, it was also the authority bestowed by your rank and responsibilities in the army. It was not until I was much older that I understood what you had done for me and the children in my village and had any suspicion of how much it cost you, financially. You have always been a kind and loving person to me and others, as well as a seeker of justice, despite your inherited wealth. A rara avis._

_But I suspect the real question is one Ben is wrestling with himself, and that is how to be something other than a poor person who is sharing his life with someone who has never known poverty. Ben and I have had similar experiences, but you rescued me out of the worst of it before it could truly scar me. I do not remember being orphaned, or ever wanting for much because I had so little to begin with, and that seemed normal. And after we met, I never again felt insecure in my life. Thanks to you, I knew I would have my needs and reasonable wants filled; the presents you sent me, personally, even when you sent others to the rest of the orphanage, made me feel wanted and loved. Ben has been financially and emotionally insecure his whole life until he met you, too, but with two decades of unfulfilled needs behind him. Even I can only imagine what that two years of utter abandonment and homelessness must have felt like. To have come through that, all of it, as whole and functioning as well as he is, I would say, is miraculous, and a testimony to his intelligence and resilience._

_In my studies of the effects of poverty, I read a great deal of child psychology. If you have not already come across it, have a look at Maslow’s hierarchy of needs. Ben missed many of the basic parts of this and is now making up for it by trying to make himself as secure physically and financially as he can. You have and are helping with that, but it will take time for him to get past 20 years of neglect and violence. Just keep doing what you do and being who you are, my brother. Have patience, and love him as you do, and he will flourish._

_And now I will confess to you a secret: I know that at one time you tried to adopt me and that is the only time I have had my hopes dashed where you were involved. I have always secretly felt that I was your daughter, Khalil, and have loved you as though you were indeed my father. Thank you for all the years of love and security you have given me, as well. Thank you for being and doing what my parents could not._

_Take care of Ben. He is a treasure._

_Much love, so much love,_

_Manizha_

Khalil was weeping unashamedly by the time he finished reading Manizha’s reply. It took him twice as long as it should have to read it because he was wiping his eyes and blowing his nose by the middle of the second paragraph and he could only think not only how much he wanted this too, how right it was, but how very, very wise this young woman had grown to be, all on her own.

_Col. K.L. Cahill, U.S. Army (ret.) <KLCahill@gmail.com> 3:46 PM  
to Manizha_

_My Dearest Daughter,_

_That’s my secret too,_ shirina _. We’ve called each other sister and brother for so many years now, but in my heart, you have always been my daughter. You weren’t the only one who had their hopes dashed when my adoption attempts fell through. But there are such things as adult adoptions and they would not have the impediments we had before. I would be proud to be your father in name and legal standing as well as sentiment. Would that be a good graduation present? And if you feel it’s too late now, I will understand. But the sentiment remains._

_With a full heart,_

_Khalil_

Two minutes later, his Skype alarm went off and he answered the call to see a blurry figure dancing around the room on crutches with astonishing nimbleness and whooping, “Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes!” When she finally stopped and sat down in front of the laptop camera again, she was laughing wildly through her tears and suddenly seemed far younger than her 25 years, and Khalil was laughing with her. At that moment, Khalil wanted nothing so badly than to hold her tight. He thought he might have to get on a plane right then and fly through the night to her in London just to hug her. His daughter. And then he was crying again too. And they were laughing at each other crying, blowing their noses at each other and laughing more.

“Khalil, what in the Prophet’s name do I call you then?” she wailed, still dabbing at tears and laughing. He’d never heard her use that tone of voice in her adult life.

“You call me whatever you’d like, _shirina_. I’ve been Khalil to you for years. I don’t see why that should stop now, unless you want it to.”

“Would you mind if I occasionally called you _babu_?”

Khalil laughed delightedly, a new and strange kind of warmth filling him. “I would not, _loor,_ ” he said. “So I will set things in motion, then. I’m going to see a lawyer this Friday about Molly anyway, so I’ll just have him draw up those papers too. And once it’s official, you should think about American citizenship as well. That will take longer.”

“We will see where my employment takes me, but that may be a good idea once the adoption is official,” Manizha agreed. “I am so happy, Khalil. This is the best present ever.”

“I don’t know how long this will take, or how hard or easy it will be, but we’ll make it happen, _shirina._ ”

“I know it will happen, because you have always made my dreams come true, Khalil-the- _djinn_ ,” she said, still smiling. “You are a magical being like all parents are.”

Khalil made a face. “You’ve known me long enough to have that shine worn off long ago.”

“Ah, but it has been polished up again now, having been buried for so long like a lost djinn’s lamp. I rub it up with a cloth and look what comes out! A father! I am allowed to idolize you for a time once again, _babu_.”

“And I’m allowed to think that my child is one of the smartest, wisest people I’ve ever known. Thank you for your advice about Ben. I think you’re right. It’s much the same thing he said, but in a less theoretical way.”

They talked a little while longer and then signed off by saying “Goodnight, _Babu_ ” and “Goodnight, _Loor_.” Khalil still wanted to get on a plane and go hug her.

He was still floating when Ben came home, walking stupidly around the house and just touching things because he didn’t know what to do with himself and couldn’t settle anywhere. Ben found it highly amusing.

“What’re you so happy about?” he said, walking into Khalil’s arms after he’d divested himself of his outdoor gear. “You look stoned. If so, I want some.”

“How would you feel about me adopting Manizha, finally?” he said. He tried to wipe the shit-eating grin off his face and couldn’t. Then stopped caring.

“Whoa, you can do that? Adopt adults?” Ben looked amazed.

“You can,” Khalil confirmed. “It’s a lot easier than adopting children. It won’t automatically make her a citizen, but it makes that road a little smoother, too, if she wants it.”

Ben looked at him with a warm smile. “You’ve wanted that for a long time, haven’t you, to adopt her? That’s why you know it’s easier.”

“I have. It’s been my biggest regret, that I couldn’t make that happen when she could have really used a parent. Turns out she’s been wanting it for as long as I have, and we both just finally confessed it to each other today.”

“Then I think it’s fucking fantastic, Khalil,” Ben said, hugging him hard. “I’m really happy for both of you.”

“It doesn’t seem weird to you? You’re nearly the same age.”

Ben snorted. “I told you before that age thing doesn’t really matter to me. And I already love Manizha. That she’s officially going to be your daughter just makes it better. I mean, it’s not like the nuclear family I was in was so perfect, regardless of our ages. I think the one we’re building is pretty awesome though.”

“I did gain a mother-in-law yesterday who’s—what, ten years, fifteen years?—younger than I am, didn’t I?” Khalil observed with a quirked smile.

“Well, close enough, I guess. Hadn’t thought about that.” Ben said, and looked a little relieved that Khalil had actually spoken that welcome of her aloud. “That means you’re stuck with my old man, too, though.”

“Only for as long as he’s still married to Molly. Then he’s the father-outlaw, as far as I’m concerned.”

Ben laughed. “Literally and in more ways than one.”

“Speaking of which, did you stop at the house?”

“I did. We’ll have to take the snowblower over to get in. Turns out the old bastard bought a new truck, finally, probably with your money from the house. It’s a honking great two-ton, 4x4 Dodge Ram about twice the size of mine. Well, not that big, but certainly bigger than mine. Dammit.”

“Having truck envy?” Khalil said with a smirk.

“I am,” Ben admitted. “I can see why Mom might not want to drive it though. I took it out to see how it was running and it’s like driving the tank. It blew right through the snow with the four wheel drive, but that’s a lot of vehicle for her to wrestle with. She might have a hard time seeing over the steering wheel, even with the seat all the way up. I’ll bet he thought that was another great way to keep her isolated.”

“No, your mum’s not a tall person, is she? Could she drive yours? You could put her on your insurance and let her drive yours while you took the new one. We’ll find out if he owes anything on it.”

“What’d you pay for this place, Khalil? How much did he walk away with?”

“About $300K before fees and taxes. Why?”

“He’ll have paid cash for the truck then. He never liked having debt. And I’m not sure he ever paid taxes.”

Khalil frowned. “Now that might be a problem. But we’ll let the lawyer sort that out. I thought he might be debt averse. He jumped at the first offer I made because it was cash. And yes, that was likely part of his reasoning for—or at least a perk of—buying such a big truck. He’s not that big a man either.”

“I think she’d be okay with mine. It’s about the same size as that beater we drove for years. She won’t know what to do because it’s an automatic though. Took me weeks to get used to that. I’d be surprised if he had insurance on his. He’d barely buy license plates and bitched and moaned about that.”

“Well, we’ll find out whose name is on the title then, though it’s probably his. I think I found a lawyer, and I’ve got an appointment with him on Friday. We can set him on it. In the meanwhile, how about dinner? I confess I’ve got none made, so let’s go out.”

On Thursday, they loaded the snowblower in the back of Ben’s truck and headed over to the Kenner rental house. Ben snowshoed his way up the drive, which was fortunately far shorter than their own, while Khalil got started clearing it, but came back after a few minutes and pulled the snow shovel out of the back of the truck, looking grim. He went after the snow savagely, and Khalil let him, feeling the tension in the air as they worked side by side, since conversation was impossible over the noise. And it was probably better to let Ben work off whatever he was feeling in physical labor, first.

By the time they’d cleared the drive and shoveled the walk and steps and around the new and magnificent red truck, Ben was calmer, though still wearing a thunderous frown. He knocked the snow off his boots on the tiny cement porch and turned to Khalil with his hand on the doorknob.

“Just so you know, we’re walking into a shithole. It looks like they hadn’t unpacked much and he wouldn’t lower himself to do women’s work after Mom left, so there isn’t a clean dish in the place. I’m glad it’s not summer and the house is fairly cool so it doesn’t stink as much as it could. But it’s going to need cleaning before it’s returned to the landlord.”

“Not an insurmountable task,” Khalil said. “Unpleasant, but not impossible.”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Ben said grimly and opened the door.

Both poverty and crazy had distinct smells, Khalil thought as they walked in. This smelled like both: the acrid smell of house dirt, unwashed dishes and bedding, and body odor that came with depression and neglect, and the smell of old things kept too long because there’s no way to replace them. He’d encountered a lot of the latter in absolutely spotless dirt-floored hovels and some of the former as well, in other places much sadder than this. So nothing was particularly surprising, and on a scale of foulness from one to ten, it was only about a four, but to Ben it no doubt seem much worse.

“I can’t imagine your mum letting anything get to this state,” he said to Ben.

“No way in hell,” Ben agreed. “You could eat off our floors. All of them, including the garage. Our clothes were always clean and mended, dishes done, everything in its place, everything scrubbed until it shone.”

“I could tell that by the shape the house was in when I first saw it. It was well-loved. If it makes you feel any better, this is as much a sign of your father’s mental illness as it is anything else. And it should be fairly easy to deal with: we’ll make sure your mother really doesn’t want anything, and get a skip for anything your father won’t need when he comes out. I see a dishwasher in the kitchen, and that’s a good bit of the work done there, provided it’s working, and if it’s not, we’ll get it fixed. We’ll see what can be given to charity, throw out the detritus, and put the rest in storage for your father when he gets out.”

Ben shook his head, laughing a little. “All things really are possible with you, aren’t they?”

“I wish!” Khalil laughed. “I’ve ‘organized’ some real cock-ups in my time, boyo. But this campaign is stationary, in a confined area, and only involves two, maybe three people, since your father doesn’t have a say in this and your mother might not want one.”

“What could g—” Ben started, mischievous gleam in his eye that Khalil was glad to see.

“Don’t say it!” Khalil shook a finger at him. “Don’t even think it!”

Ben laughed. “Where _do_ we start? I’ve got no idea and it just seems really overwhelming.”

“That’s your emotions and history talking,” Khalil told him. “And that’s to be expected. It’s hard enough cleaning up what our parents leave behind when we love them and they still have all their faculties at the end. I wish I could do this for you, but we’ll have to do it together because I can’t make the decisions about what’s here like you can. But I won’t leave you alone with it. The first thing we do is check with your mum and get a skip. You talk to her and I’ll order the skip. How’s that? We’d better clear a spot for it. We can take the truck back to our house today, and that’s a start on the garage.”

Ben blew out a breath. “Yeah, that seems doable. I should get his tools out of there today, too. That way if we can’t get a skip right away, we can fill up the garage.”

“Good thinking. One step at a time, boyo. We got access to the site and have assessed the situation. That’s a good start. I’ll help you load up the tools and then you go talk to your mum. I’ll take the snowblower back in your father’s truck and get the order for the skip in.”

Ben stepped in and hugged him. “Thank you. I feel a lot better about all of this now.”

Khalil kissed his forehead. “Just remember you’re not alone in this, any of it.”

Ben returned from seeing his mother in a far better mood than they’d parted in. Molly confirmed she wanted nothing from the house. She wanted, instead, “a clean, fresh start as her own person,” Ben reported, “no matter how hard it was. I told her there was no need for it to be as hard as she was making it, that it hurt me to see her struggling when I could help, and that seemed to give her pause. I’ve at least got her thinking now, so I feel like I made some progress. I think I can get her to let me help her more, eventually. I just can’t push her.”

“No, and that was good thinking too, boyo. The last thing mums who love their kids want to see is them being hurt by their actions.”

“Yeah, she was always protective of me, as much as she could be; I see that, now. And I see how much he brainwashed her, tore her down so she couldn’t fight back for either of us. She’s different than I remember. You and Alisa helped me see that too. And I did get her to take the phone I got her. I bought a used, unlocked one off Ebay and got it set up as a second line on my plan, so she won’t have to use the landline at the shelter to talk to everyone. It was a little bit of a struggle, but I told her it would be easier for us to talk, made getting a job easier to have her own phone, and it wasn’t costing me much, all of which is the truth.”

“Well done, laddie. Though I suspect you’ve got a lot of experience out-maneuvering your mum,” he said, his mouth quirked in a smile.

“Doesn’t every kid?” Ben acknowledged with an answering grin. “Also, it’s hard to object to the done deal. Too late then.”

“Aye. Better to ask forgiveness than permission.”

“Now there’s a philosophy to live by,” Ben agreed. “I picked up some cleaning supplies and garbage bags too. I’ll get some storage containers or boxes or something when we see what’s left. And here’s an extra key for you, in case you need to get in while I’m at work.”

“Well, the skip won’t be delivered until Monday, but we can make a start this weekend. The tools are still in your father’s truck, since I wasn’t sure where you’d want to put them.”

“They’re all engraved with his name, so I’ll integrate them with mine and just take care of them while he’s in jail. It’s better not to let your tools just sit. Especially the power ones. I’ll sort that out now. Thanks for bringing those home.”

They did indeed make a start on the cleanup that weekend. But on Friday, while Ben was at work, Khalil went to his appointment with the lawyer, who seemed competent to handle both the asset-investigation and the adoption papers, the latter of which he said could be prepared in about a week’s time. Khalil still felt his heart soar every time he thought about finally adopting Manizha, and the conversation they’d had. Marc would no doubt rag him again about getting all the fun and none of the orthodontia, though that wasn’t strictly true. Though Khalil had not been able to adopt her, he had made himself responsible for her health and well-being as much as possible. He’d not only paid for all her education, but for all her medical and dental care as well, and for a doctor for the orphanage’s children. She had a high-tech prosthesis, and he’d gotten braces for her teeth when she was an undergrad, living in a country with the dental care to do that. The material things he’d done for her and the care he’d given her health had not made up for the separation in space between them. He had not been able to visit often enough, or spend enough time with her when she was little, but had done his best to communicate to her what she meant to him when he had been there, and through letters and phone calls. He supposed he had been successful in that, at least, if her reaction to his proposal had been any indication. He gave the lawyer her contact details and a retainer for the investigative work.

Saturday morning, he and Ben fortified themselves with a good breakfast that Khalil made and headed off to the Kenner’s in the tank. “Any idea where your father might keep his important papers, whatever they are?” Khalil asked as they pulled into the drive.

Ben thought for a bit before answering. “I remember a big, green strongbox he kept under the bed. I’d bet it would be there if anywhere.”

“I don’t suppose we have his keys, do we?”

“We do. Mom copied all of them, not just the house and truck.”

“Good for her. That’ll save us from drilling the lock, which might not work anyway, depending on the lock. Why don’t you start there and I’ll get going in the kitchen. We’ll see if the dishwasher works, and how well.”

“Will do. I’ll toss Mom’s clothes while I’m up there, too. I doubt anything she owned is worth giving to charity since she’d gotten most of it at Goodwill to begin with.”

A couple of hours later, Khalil had made a good dent in the kitchen chaos, cleaning out the fridge, soaking the dishes prior to putting them in the dishwasher, and bagging the trash Ben’s father had let pile up. He moved the garbage bags out to the now-empty garage to wait for the skip and had started pulling food from the cupboards to see what could be taken to the food pantry when Ben came downstairs with another garbage bag fractionally full of clothing, seething.

“This is all he let her have, everything she owned, for fuck’s sake,” he growled, shaking the mostly empty bag. “She must have taken what underwear she had with her when she left because I didn’t see any. Three dresses. Two skirts. A couple of blouses. A summer and a winter nightgown. A pair of shoes and a pair of slippers, and her gardening boots. No jeans or anything to do housework or gardening in. And it’s all worn and mended. Meanwhile, his side of the closet is full of decent store-bought work clothes and good boots. That fucker. I want to set all of his stuff on fire, make him start from scratch. I won’t, though. But boy do I want to.” Ben stomped off to the garage to deposit his pitiful load, then came back and threw himself into one of the kitchen chairs. “I packed up his clothes too, except for the dirty ones. Maybe I’ll set those on fire instead of washing them.”

“I approve of that solution,” Khalil said. “There’s a burn barrel out back. It might be pretty cathartic. Did you find the strongbox?”

“Four of them. And three of those fuckers are really heavy.”

“Hmmm,” Khalil said. “Bring them down so we don’t forget them. Or do you need a hand?”

“No, I can get them. Then I’ll help you finish up here. I’ll need some food by then.”

“Same here. We’ll put the dishwasher on and then go get some lunch and come back. Or not. I don’t see any rush about this, do you?”

“Not other than to have it over with. And we won’t until I get a storage space and the skip gets here anyway.”

Ben hauled down the strongboxes and left them by the door, then went to help Khalil sort through the cupboards. They threw out everything that was already open, and bagged up the rest for the food pantry. “I wonder were Mom’s canning got to? Maybe it wasn’t unpacked. This is all store bought food, and we didn’t do that much.”

“Maybe they did after they sold the house. That must have given him more cash in hand to buy food, instead of relying on her canning,” Khalil speculated.

“Yeah, good point. But what happened to it? There was always a two-year backup supply. I don’t see it anywhere. Maybe it’s in the basement.”

“We haven’t even been down there. Want to take a look? I’ll go with you, since neither of us are fond of basements,” Khalil said.

“Yeah, might as well get it over with.”

But there were no surprises, ugly or otherwise in the slightly dusty, unfinished basement, just shelves of Molly’s canning. Ben had bought plastic crates in anticipation of finding it, and they packed it up and took it upstairs.

“Now what do we do with it?” Khalil said. “The food pantry won’t take food in glass containers, or home-canned food.”

“Sic Mrs. Newsome on it,” Ben suggested. “She’ll find some place that will want it, I bet, a soup kitchen or something.”

“Great idea,” Khalil said. “We’ll take it back with us and I can deliver it then, if you’re off at work. Is that okay with you?”

“I actually wouldn’t mind keeping some of it,” Ben said, wistfully holding a jar of dill pickles. “Mom is good at this and knows what she’s doing. We never got sick from it. And I miss her jam and her pickles.”

“We’ll keep whatever you like, boyo. I trust your judgement about her abilities. And it does look beautiful.”

Ben threw him a side-eye.

“What? Food can be beautiful. It should be. We feast as much with our eyes as with the rest of our senses.”

Ben shook his head. “No, you’re right. I just like hearing you talk about food like it’s a lover’s body, and not just something to keep you alive. I’m learning that from you, too. Meals were never that happy in our house, despite how good Mom’s cooking was. And she is a good cook. As good as you.”

“Is she, now?” Khalil murmured thoughtfully, as he stacked three of the crates to load in the back of the tank. “Bring those strongboxes out too,” he said.

Once that was done, he and Ben loaded the dishwasher with what had been soaking, started it up, and put in another batch to soak in the sink. They hauled the donations to the food pantry out to the tank, closed up the house, and headed off to the diner for lunch. Khalil parked by the window so they could keep an eye on the tank and its strongboxes camouflaged in among the crates of Molly’s canning. They dropped that load at home, before the contents of the glass jars could freeze in the SUV, and took the strongboxes up to the office to open later. Then stopped off at the food pantry with their donation on the way back to the rental.

They ran the dishwasher once more for the stubborn bits, then spent the rest of the afternoon opening the packed boxes and sorting them to “keep,” “donate,” or “trash” piles. Many of the boxes were building supplies that would be kept and stored for Ben’s father. A couple of boxes held Molly’s canning supplies, including her cooking equipment. Khalil suggested they hang on to those, “just in case. We can put them in the basement by the freezer, or store them in the garage. There’s room for them there.”

“There is,” Ben agreed, looking at him curiously. “Are you scheming?”

“Maybe,” Khalil admitted with an enigmatic smile. “I just have a feeling.”

“Okay. I trust your hunches. And I don’t know about you, but I’m just about done for the day. It’s dark, and I’m hungry. Let’s get a pizza on the way home. We’ve got beer, right?”

“We do,” Khalil confirmed. “That sounds like a plan.”

Canning equipment and supplies stowed in the tank, they procured a pizza and headed home. After said pizza and beers were consumed, Khalil went out to the garage to bring in Molly’s equipment and store it in the basement, reminding himself to take the mats to the dojo next time he went, and Ben went upstairs to the office to try out the keys on the strongboxes. He was just coming upstairs from the basement when he heard Ben shout, “Holy fuck! Khalil! You have to see this!”

He took the stairs three at a time and in a few steps was inside the office with Ben, the four strongboxes open on the desk. One contained papers, as they’d suspected, but the other three…

The other three contained neat piles of cash, crisp and wrapped fresh from the bank.

Ben was practically hyperventilating. Khalil made him sit and got him a glass a water, telling him to drink it slowly and watch him while he counted it. He fanned each stack of hundreds, each of which seemed intact, before putting them in piles of ten. By the time he was done, the desk was covered, even with the strongboxes moved to the floor, and Ben was calmer but still wide-eyed.

“$250,000, at a rough count,” he said to Ben. “It must have taken the bank a few days to come up with this much cash for him, up here. They can give us a more accurate count. I’m not taking these apart before they do that. I’m guessing this is part of the money from the house sale, minus cash for the truck and who knows what else. Possibly rent on the house.”

“Yeah, I was guessing that too,” Ben agreed. “That truck is pretty tricked out, so I’d estimate 35 or 40K for that, which leaves another 10 or 15 missing, roughly. See? I can do basic accounting.”

Khalil ruffled his hair. “Very good, laddie. Wonder what he did with that, or if we’ll find it squirreled away somewhere else? Or some other thing he bought with it.”

“He might have just squirreled it away. There are bank statements in that first box, income tax receipts, receipts for other stuff. I haven’t looked closely yet, just rifled through it.”

“We can do that together, if you’d like. Tomorrow or whenever you want. Or I could take it all to the lawyer. It would probably help his search anyway.”

“I want a look at it first, but yes, take it to the lawyer. In the meanwhile, what the fuck do we do with this?” he said a little desperately, waving his hand at the piles of cash.

“We could spread it on the floor, get naked and roll around on it,” Khalil suggested with a perfectly straight face. “That’s what I like to do when I visit my accounts in the Caymans. Or at least that’s what Manizha told me Jeff Bezos likes to do.”

Ben spluttered and the panicked look left his eyes as he started to laugh. “I did see that cartoon, at least, with Scrooge McDuck doing the backstroke in his bank vault. You have accounts in the Caymans? Aren’t those tax shelters?”

“No, I don’t actually have any accounts in the Caymans, even though my ‘wealth manager’ keeps yelling at me to move my money there. I like paying taxes. He thinks I’m insane. We’ll put this in the safe for now, sans boxes, and I’ll talk to the lawyer about it when I take him your father’s papers. I’d imagine your mum’s entitled to at least half of this, if not more.”

And that brought a huge look of relief to Ben’s face, quickly erased by worry. “If we can get her to take it.”

“I wouldn’t sweat that too much,” Khalil said, squeezing his shoulder. “Adi’s very persuasive and I’m sure the people at the shelter are pretty convincing too. Not to mention Joanne. Just looking at the amount of canning your mum did—Christ and Allah, your father owes her a shitload of money just for that labor alone.”

Khalil put the cash in the safe, after rearranging his own belongings that included his handgun and his own stack of cash, and taught Ben the code for it after putting some of his own papers in another locked box inside. “It’s not that I don’t trust you, boyo, it’s that you don’t have clearance to see that stuff and the State and Defense Departments would have my head if you did.”

“How very George Smiley,” Ben observed with an amused smirk. “I thought you’d retired?”

Khalil closed the document box with a decisive electronic click. “When you’re an ex-special ops contractor like I was, some things follow you, no matter what you do to shake them. I don’t much like that, but there’s not much I can do about it. They’ve been long dormant though, and I expect them to stay that way. I’m too damn old to be dealing with that shite now. C’mon, my lad, I think that find deserves a celebratory drink of something.”

If there’d been no surprises in the basement, there was more than one in the box of papers Ben and Khalil dug into the next day. For all his grumbling, Ben’s father had been a regular taxpayer until the last two years when he had let them lapse—except for the property taxes—at least as far as the paperwork went. It seemed unlikely he had filed online when there was no computer in their house, but Khalil said they would set the lawyer on it to make sure. There were also bank statements for a savings account that held several hundred thousand dollars. Ben gawked at that, at first, and then got angry. “Mom and I are running around in shitty secondhand clothes and I can’t even buy a fucking paperback without begging him for five dollars and he’s got this in the bank. Greedy sonofabitch. I mean, yeah, we had a nice house to live in, but we could have afforded food and decent clothes. He just didn’t want to spend it on us.”

“It does look that way,” Khalil said sadly. “How young were your parents when they married?”

Ben took a minute to do the math in his head. “Mom was 18, my father was five years older. I think it was a shotgun wedding because I came along six months later.”

“So your mum’s 39 and your father’s 44, or thereabouts. That’s pretty young to be marrying. If he was always such a stickler for the gender roles, not letting your mother have an outside, paying job, he was supporting all of you.”

“I don’t imagine he was any different then. I don’t remember anything else. Why?”

“I’m just thinking that kind of social structure can make for a lot of resentment in men who see women only as dependents, not partners. The same with children. Especially if he didn’t have much choice in the matter. ”

Ben nodded thoughtfully. “Yeah, he acted a lot of the time like we were a burden. Should have kept his damn dick in his pocket, then.”

Khalil leaned over and kissed his temple. “I wouldn’t have you then. And I’m a little selfish about that. Let’s see what else is in here.”

There were also deeds to other pieces of property that Ben hadn’t known about, scattered around the area. Some looked as though they’d been inherited, others purchased after the marriage. They found a receipt for the truck, which accounted for $36,482 of the missing house sale money, and they found the paperwork for the sale, as well. There was also a receipt for the house rental that accounted for a bit more of the missing total, but not all of it. There didn’t seem to be any insurance certificates for anything—house, truck, life, or health, which Ben said was not surprising, but there was a will, scrawled messily in holograph and dated just after the blow-up with Ben, leaving everything to Molly, and if she predeceased him, to some distant niece Ben had never heard of. It was witnessed by Jeff Robinson and someone Ben said was another of his militia pals.

“I didn’t even know he had a sister or brother. We never saw them. And wow am I not surprised he totally disinherited me.”

“Given the way things turned out after this was written, you probably could contest this just on his state of mind,” Khalil said. “I’m not even sure a handwritten will is legal in this state.”

“Not that I give a fuck,” Ben growled. “I know how Mom feels. I don’t want anything from the bastard either. But you’ve given me a leg up, and that fucker _owes_ her.”

Then they found the receipts for the gun purchases. Plural.

“Holy crap,” Ben said. “That’s a fucking arsenal. I don’t know what got into him. He was never a gun nut. And where are they?”

“Look at the purchase dates,” Khalil said grimly.

Ben took the receipts from Khalil and went through them, color draining from his face. “He bought them in the weeks after Mom left him, right before he and Jeff came after us. Christ Khalil, that could have been so much worse. I’m almost grateful to Jeff now for organizing that little dance party. It probably kept my father from going completely postal on us.”

“We should find the guns though, because you’re right; that’s an arsenal. And he won’t be able to have them when he gets out anyway, being an ex-con.”

“He was really losing it, wasn’t he?” Ben said, sounding almost sympathetic. “Letting the taxes go, hoarding money, buying guns, beating up Mom, trying to do the same with me, writing me out of his will and disowning me.”

“It looks that way, yes,” Khalil agreed. “You could make a case for a lot of paranoia, at least. I wonder if the pre-trial investigator knew about any of this.”

“I’d bet not. I think we would have heard, don’t you?”

“Marc would know, probably, better than I do. My experience with American law has been pretty minimal. We should talk to him about the guns.”

“Let’s find them, first. Or at least try to. Let’s see what else is in here.” Ben dug some more, through receipts for various pieces of construction equipment Adam had bought through the years, finding the receipt for another truck, only five years older than the one sitting in their driveway now, also missing.

“So he’d drive that 25-year-old beater to wherever he’s got this other one parked, just to keep it away from Mom and give me the impossible chore of keeping it running, then drive the other one around for work?”

Khalil shook his head in what might have been admiration if it hadn’t been so absurd and horrible. “No matter what else he is, your father was a first-class gaslighter. I’d thought Luz’s husband took the cake, but your father could teach him a trick or two.”

“So where’s _that_ truck, too? I don’t see anything to indicate he sold it before he bought this—hang on. Here’s a receipt for a storage unit, a big one. Paid in advance for the year. He got this just after they moved, so it’s coming up for renewal soon.”

“Any of the keys Molly give you not fit anything we’ve been into yet?”

“Yeah, a couple,” Ben affirmed. “There might be more storage units.”

There were, at least according to the receipts. One was not current, the other was in the same complex as the first. but much smaller, and also paid a year in advance.

“I have a bad feeling about this,” Ben said, looking worried. Khalil was frowning in a way he hadn’t since he’d left Syria. “You too?”

Khalil nodded. “Let me call Marc. I think we might want to hand this off to officials farther up the food chain. Like the ATF.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year, kids! This just went totally off the rails and I have no idea where it's going. Let's take a vote: more drama, or should I start wrapping this up? How crazy is Ben's father?


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Feds arrive. The boys make a new friend. Life gets very complicated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are, off the rails, because that's what you asked for. Buckle up.

Marc was even more eloquent on the subject than Ben had been, using every swear word in every language he’d ever picked up in the Army during his 20 years.

“Feel better?” Khalil said over the phone speaker as he and Ben sat at the bar with Adam’s box of papers spread across its surface. “Just wait, you’re going to love this, too: Ben just found receipts from six months ago for hundreds of pounds of fertilizer. Far more than you’d ever need for a garden, even one the size of theirs, which they don’t have anymore. None of it was at the house.”

“Holy Christ,” was what Marc was reduced to, having used up his store of expletives. “Yeah, I’m kicking this up to the FBI and ATF. That’s way above my current pay grade. What the fuck, Ben? I mean, I knew your old man was a moody bastard, but Jesus Christ!”

“I think that goes way beyond moody, Marc,” Ben said, looking pale. “I don’t know what fuck it is. But it wouldn’t surprise me if it’s something Jeff steered him into.”

“Yeah, I could see that,” Marc sounded thoughtful. “The Feds will need all those receipts and whatever else might be a paper trail that you find. I’d make copies of what you’ve got if you’re taking them to the divorce lawyer. Do it now. I’m calling the downstate office of the Feds as soon as we hang up. They may or may not send a statie over to ‘secure the scene,’ since the nearest field office is a few hours away. I’ll emphasize that there’s nothing live or imminent, and that the owner of the receipts and two likeliest perps are already locked up, but assume the worst. The Feds tend to freak out when you hint at terrorism now, domestic and otherwise.”

“There’s a lot, Marc. Give us a couple of hours—”

“Work faster,” Marc said, and hung up.

Ben scooped up half the pile and turned to go upstairs to the office. “You take photos, I’ll scan,” he said over his shoulder. Buddy, catching the air of excitement, barked and danced around Ben’s feet. “If we’ve got time, we’ll keep scanning for better quality.”

“Assume they’ll take all our electronic devices, too, though I’ll have to fight them for my laptop and probably win because it has a DOD NDA to go with it. Goddammit. This makes me wish I wasn’t retired and still had a squad with Marc on it.”

“Oh? And what would you do?” Ben said grinning from the top of the stairs as Buddy watched him, tongue lolling.

“I’d go find me some militia asses to kick,” Khalil growled, sounding a lot like Marc.

Ben laughed and turned back to the office, Buddy following. Khalil grimly started taking photos of the documents he was left with.

They actually got through all the scanning before anyone showed up, and the person who did was Marc, looking like someone had shat in his coffee and left a floater. Not even Buddy’s greeting could change his expression, though he gave the dog his usual head rubs and not so surreptitious treat.

“Feds are on their way,” he said, sitting down at the bar with his fresh cup sans floater. “And it is going to be a shit show. The only reason there’s no statie here is that I said I’d secure the scene and I mentioned that we were both retired Special Forces from the same squad. The guy I talked to was over there the same time we were. Keep in mind that I do not want to know anything about copies you might have of these documents. I suspect they’ll come with a warrant for your phones and computers. You got paper for the field laptop?”

Khalil patted his breast pocket. “Sure do. They can roust my DOD contacts on a Sunday and get an earful if they’d like.”

“Why the hell would they treat us like suspects?” Ben said indignantly. “They wouldn’t even know about this if we hadn’t alerted them. We’re voluntarily surrendering what we found.”

“Kiddo, everybody’s a suspect when you’re in law enforcement,” Marc said, and Khalil shot Ben an _I told you so_ look. “You’re related to the man who bought an arsenal and hundreds of pounds of bomb ingredients, and who’s known to consort with a militia the Feds are already keeping an eye on. And Khalil here’s your significant other. Plus, Ohmygod, he’s half Iranian! Get ready to be racially profiled, Khalil,” Marc warned with just a little bitterness in his voice that Buddy caught, and leaned against Marc’s leg in comfort. “They’ll probably want to talk to your mom, too, Ben.” Marc dug in his pocket and took out his wallet, from whence he pulled a business card, handing it to Khalil. “This is a very sharp, very expensive attorney I know, who handles high profile criminal defense and civil rights cases. I would call her. Now. You can say you’re a friend of mine. Her personal cell number’s on the back. I’ve told her you might call.”

“On it,” Khalil said, and suited deed to word, knowing Marc’s advice was generally worth following. He could almost hear the lawyer’s ears perking up as he invoked Marc’s name, gave his own, and explained the situation. Then he let her know he was putting her on speaker and placed the phone on the bar.

“—be happy to represent you, Colonel Cahill, and Mrs. Kenner and her son too. It’s not gong to be cheap, though.”

“I’ll be covering the costs for all of us. You’re not the only lawyer I’ve got on retainer, ma’am, just the only one I’ve needed for anything but business and finance.”

“Understood. You and Mr. Kenner agree to have me represent you? Please affirm orally if that’s so.”

“Yes,” Khalil said and nodded at Ben, who did likewise.

“Very good. Please text me your address. I’ll be there as soon as I can. In the meanwhile, give the Feds the evidence you’ve gathered in the box it came in, but nothing more unless they have a warrant. Make sure the warrant is very specific about what they can take, if they do have one, and object strongly to them taking anything else, but don’t try to stop them. Document it if you can.”

“Understood,” Khalil said. “One snag: I have a DOD-issued laptop associated with my prior employment as a military contractor, that I’ve signed an NDA for and that must not leave my possession. I’ve got the non-disclosure forms to prove it, and a contact they can call.”

“That should be fine, then. DOD trumps DOJ, in those kinds of matters at least. You can fight for that one. Do you have a safe?”

“I do, but it’s a bit full at the moment. We found $250,000 in three other strongboxes, probably from the sale of the house I’m currently living in and bought from the Kenners almost a year ago.”

“Oh, this is complicated,” the lawyer said, sounding pleased. “Is the safe in plain sight?”

“No, behind a wall panel.”

“Don’t volunteer anything about it or the contents of the other strongboxes, if it’s not on the warrant. Keep the laptop out, then, and just show them your NDA and make them call your contacts if necessary. Any other ‘snags’ you can think of? Mr. Kenner? What about you? Does your mother know what’s going on?”

“She does,” Ben affirmed. “I called her before Marc—Sheriff Winston got here.”

“Excellent. Please give me her number and I’ll contact her too.”

“Tell her the representation is a done deal,” Ben said with a small smile. “Otherwise we’ll have a fight about it.”

“Understood. I’ve got a momma like that, too. Anything else? Firearms of your own?”

“Oh, shit,” Ben said. “Yeah, I’ve got a hunting rifle in the gun safe in the garage. And Khalil’s got a handgun in it too. Both unloaded, ammo locked up.”

“Tell them that straight away. Right after ‘hello.’ All of that: unloaded and separate ammo. Nothing in your vehicles?”

“No, but we’ve got my father’s new truck here, too, in the driveway. There’s a gun rack in it, but it’s empty. I don’t know what else is in the cab, but the box is empty.”

“They’ll probably confiscate that too. Now please sit tight until I get there. And say nothing, no matter what they say. Tell them your lawyer will be there shortly and you’ll be happy to cooperate in every way then. If they start removing things from the house, watch them carefully and demand an inventory and receipts if they don’t offer them.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Khalil responded. “Got it,” Ben added.

“See you soon, gentlemen.”

“Christ and Allah,” Khalil muttered after they cut the connection. “Thanks for her number, Marc.”

“Whose number?” he said, winking, and Khalil snorted a laugh.

“Jesus, Khalil, I’m sorry about all this,” Ben said. “I feel awful—”

Khalil rounded on him, almost angrily, then got himself in check as Ben flinched. “Listen to me, boyo: This is not your fault, and I will not have you taking responsibility for your father’s actions, or for the mental illness that may have driven some of it, or for the militia fuckheads who probably egged him on, or for the complete stupidity of the rest of them or the hate and fear they’re too ignorant to fix. The only person who needs to own this is your father. And if it’s part of the package of being with you, so be it. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Ben replied solemnly. Buddy came over and put his head on Ben’s knee.

Khalil took his face in both hands and kissed his forehead. “It’ll be fine, eventually. It’ll be a pain in the arse for a while, but we’ll get through that. And it sounds like we’ve got a good sharp ally who knows the terrain and the intel, thanks to Marc, so don’t sweat it. I’ve got your back, lad.”

“Jesus, at least give a man a mush alert next time,” Marc grumbled. Ben and Khalil cracked up, easing some of the tension.

The black SUVs he expected did not come down the drive. What came down the drive were two silver Ford Focuses with four FBI agents in them, who arrived not long before the blue Range Rover driven by their lawyer. There wasn’t quite enough room in front of the garage for both of them, with Adam’s truck and Marc’s cop car already parked, so they filled the drive itself, halfway back around the curve.

Marc, as the officer responsible for securing the scene, answered the door to the agents, and told them about both guns in the garage, confirming that he had checked they’d been locked up. Ben had already crated Buddy, who was sad that he was missing all the new people and whined a little from his spot. The lead agent, Special Agent Andrew Sanders, thanked Marc and intimated that this was their scene now and he could go. Marc just smiled and leaned up against the counter with his arms crossed over his uniform.

“My county, my jurisdiction, Special Agent Sanders,” he said. “Happy to work with you folks though. Let me know what you need.”

“I told you that wouldn’t fly with this guy, Andy,” another of the agents said with a grin. “Special Forces aren’t going to be impressed by our stinkin’ badges.” Khalil assumed this was the one Marc had spoken with at the field office.

Sanders nodded and stuck out his hand. “Guy’s gotta try. Looking forward to working with you, Sheriff. Want to introduce us to the cooperating witnesses?”

Marc nodded in Khalil’s direction. “Colonel Khalil Cahill, U.S. Army, Special Forces, retired, owner of the house, and his partner, Benjamin Kenner, Adam Kenner’s son. I’ve known both of them for a couple of decades, at least, Benjamin since he was a little kid.” Not quite accurate, but close enough, Khalil thought, shaking hands with the agents.

“Gentlemen,” Sanders said, polite as could be. Khalil recognized a fellow interrogator and put up his guard, painting on his most affable expression. “Thanks for crating your dog. You live here together?” Sanders asked in that insidious _just making small talk_ way.

“We do,” Khalil said. That much seemed obvious and harmless.

“For how long?” Sanders asked, and Khalil could see how this would go: one innocuous, friendly question after another until the object of the questioning began to reveal things they hadn’t intended to, just like the interrogations he’d performed himself.

Khalil smiled innocently. “I’ll put some coffee on and we can wait for our lawyer before we start with the questions, eh?”

Sanders’s face revealed a flash of irritation that Khalil wouldn’t have let slip. “We’re just having a conversation here,” he said.

“One that can wait a bit,” Khalil countered. “She’s on her way. We’ll both be happy to talk to you when she’s here.”

“You know that looks kind of suspicious, you wanting a lawyer already,” Sanders said.

“I can’t control how you view it, but we’re just exercising our rights, sir,” Khalil responded, not losing any of his friendly demeanor but deeply annoyed at the intimidation tactics. “And as I said, we’re happy to cooperate. Can’t hurt to make sure it’s all above board though, and that you don’t get any mistaken ideas about us.”

Sanders gave him an expressionless but not entirely friendly look. “Just so you know, we’ve got a warrant.”

And that really pissed him off. “A search warrant, I presume, not an arrest warrant. Let’s be precise,” Khalil responded coolly. “I thought you might. May I see it, please?”

Bluff called, Sanders handed it over and Khalil spread it out on the counter, turning his back on them while he and Ben read it over. He needed a minute to tamp down the annoyance and he knew Marc would keep an eye on the agents. The warrant was about what they expected and he was thankful it didn’t include their own vehicles. The loss of their computers would be bad enough. There was, thankfully, no mention of a safe and the warrant was narrow enough to be limited to the strongbox and its contents, any computers or electronic devices in the house, and any “relevant materials” in plain sight, which would probably include Adam’s truck, Khalil thought. He looked over at Ben and tapped that part of the warrant. Ben nodded, having taken note of that too.

Khalil turned back to Sanders. “I have one laptop I won’t be surrendering, I’m afraid. It’s DOD-issued and I have an NDA for it,” he said, handing the document over to Sanders, who did not look pleased. He read the NDA and said, “I’ll need a copy of this.”

“You can keep that one,” Khalil replied. “I have the original.”

Another knock at the door heralded the arrival of their lawyer. Lumina Unduli was a tall, afroed black woman with striking blue eyes, clad in jeans and a belted Burberry down coat. She stuffed her leather gloves in her pockets and kissed Marc’s cheek as he closed the door behind her.

“How’re Adi and the girls?” she said.

“Everybody’s fine. Adi says hello and to stop by if you have a chance,” Marc said with an uncharacteristic smile. “Let me introduce you to your clients. Lumina Unduli, this is Colonel Khalil Cahill and Benjamin Kenner.”

Khalil stepped forward with his hand out for a warm, firm handshake with frank eye contact and a quick mutual scrutiny, then took her coat after she shook hands with Ben. Introductions done, she turned to the FBI agents. “Hey, Andy,” she said, “thought I’d see you here. Hugh, Sean, and someone new!” She stepped forward and stuck out her hand to the female agent. “Lumina Unduli,” she said.

“Special Agent Robin Webb,” the woman answered with a quick but guarded smile. “I’ve heard about you.”

“I’m sure you have, from these guys,” she said wryly. “So,” she said, turning back to Andy. “Do we have a warrant?”

Khalil, who liked her immensely already, handed it over to her. She read it carefully, and gave it back to Khalil, who leaned back against the counter to watch her work with anticipation. Marc threw him a surreptitious wink.

“Andy, why are you trying to take these people’s computers? Are they suspects? And if so, of what? I mean, here they are, good citizens dutifully reporting that they found something scary and dangerous to the community and you’re depriving them of their property in thanks. You know how hard it is to get shit back from the black hole of the evidence room. And it’s not like it’s cheap to replace them.”

Sanders looked tired already. “It’s Mr. Kenner’s father’s papers, Lumina. He may have been in contact with—”

Unduli turned to Ben. “Mr. Kenner, when was the last time you saw your father?”

“In a courtroom last week when he was being sentenced,” Ben replied, his cool facade in place.

“Did you speak to him?”

“No.”

“When was the last time you were in contact with him before that?”

Ben paused, doing the math. “Aside from the night he tried to beat me with a tire iron, because we didn’t really speak then? About three years ago, when I ran away from him for beating the shit out of me with his fists.”

“Thank you, and I’m so sorry. Colonel Cahill, I assume the last time you saw the senior Mr. Keller was also in the courtroom?”

“Yes,” Khalil agreed. “Before that, the last time was the night of his arrest for attacking Ben.”

“And you spoke to him when you bought the house?”

“No, I was in Dublin, and that was all done through our realtors and lawyers. I never spoke with him at all. Never laid eyes on him before the night he attacked Ben.”

“Thank you, Colonel Cahill.” She turned back to Sanders. “These people haven’t had any actual contact with Adam Kenner in years, if at all, Andy. Let’s let them keep their computers, for Pete’s sake. They’re handing you a box full of evidence and the literal keys to more.”

There was a little more _pro forma_ back and forth about it, but in the end they let Ben and Khalil keep their electronics. While Khalil and Ben were telling the story and answering questions under Unduli’s watchful eye, two agents gloved up and went to search Adam’s truck. Marc went out to “help.”

“I’d like a list of things you’ve taken from the rental property, please,” Sanders said when they got to that part of the story.

“Coming right up,” Khalil said. “We’re keeping an inventory for the divorce to help Mrs. Kenner get her fair share of the assets.” He opened the field laptop and after a few minutes there was the whir of a printer out of sight somewhere.

“I’ll get it,” Ben said, and opened a cupboard at the end of the bar containing a small black and white wireless laser printer and a wifi booster. He looked over the sheet of paper before giving it to Sanders. “We hadn’t started inventorying anything else in the rental yet,” he said, “just cleaning up garbage.”

“Where are his tools now, Mr. Kenner?” Sanders asked, perusing the list.

“Mostly in the garage. Some in my own tool boxes.”

“Which you cannot take wholesale,” Unduli put in. Sanders nodded wearily.

“My father’s tools all have his name engraved on them, right down to the chisels, so it’s easy to separate them out,” Ben added.

“Just that and the canning are all you brought back?”

“Yes,” Ben affirmed. “And the truck, obviously. And whatever he left in there that I didn’t see. We didn’t search the cab. We did take unopened canned and boxed food to the food pantry though.”

“All of it unopened?”

Ben nodded. “The pantry won’t take anything that’s opened. Everything else is in garbage bags in the rental’s garage, waiting for the skip to arrive on Monday.”

“That’s a piece of luck,” Sanders said. “If you’d show me the canning in the basement please, Colonel Cahill, and Special Agent Webb can get started on collecting the tools with Mr.—”

“Let’s not separate my clients, Andy, please,” Unduli said with a sweet smile. “There’s only one of me to keep an eye on them.”

“Thank God,” Sanders muttered. But the five of them first trooped down to the basement where Sanders and Webb examined the jars, which were neatly labeled and dated, and then out to the garage to watch Ben point out his father’s tools from their combined collection while Webb and Sanders tagged and boxed and bagged. There was a snafu with a handsaw that Khalil had seen Ben use before the arrival of Adam’s tools, though it had his name engraved on it.

“He left that behind here when they vacated the place three years ago,” Ben said. “I don’t know if he just missed it in his hurry to get out of here, or left it behind purposely.” He waved a hand. “What the hell. Take it. I’ll get a new one. Good excuse not to have anything else of his,” he added with obvious distaste. 

When they were finished, the Feds departed with a warning to Khalil and Ben to stay away from the Kenner rental until their people had had time to search it. They’d be notified when that was. They sealed the truck with evidence stickers across the doors and windows and said they’d be sending a tow truck from the lab for it in a day or two. They were also warned there might be further questions once the evidence had been sifted through. After friendly handshakes all around, and perfunctory thanks from Agent Sanders, Khalil saw the FBI out with a gust of air as he closed the door. Unduli ran out to move her Range Rover so they could get out of the drive, then came back, shivering in her cashmere sweater. Khalil had already put the coffee on, and Marc and Ben were seated in their usual spots. Lumina took the stool between them, instinctively leaving Khalil’s empty. He chose to stand behind the counter while the coffee was brewing.

“Well, that’s not the way anybody wants to spend their Sunday,” she said, huffing out a breath. “I’m sorry that had to happen to you two. Maybe if law enforcement weren’t so dang uncivil to citizens, they’d have a better relationship.” And there she gave Marc the side-eye. Khalil chuckled.

“Sounds like you and I have the same argument, or parts of one, going with Marc. Is that how you met?”

“Oh, lord no! I’m still waiting to get Marc on the witness stand!” she said, laughing. “Adi and I were undergrads together. I missed her wedding because the judge I was clerking for was in the middle of some hairy case and we were working through the weekend, or I heard I might have met you there. I was amazed to hear Marc had any friends.”

“They’re always so nice to me, too,” Marc said, “even when I fix parking tickets for them and refer rich clients to them.”

Khalil looked at Lumina. “He ever fix a parking ticket for you, Ms. Unduli?”

“No, sir, Colonel Cahill.”

“Me either,” Khalil confirmed. “Some friend.”

“Right?” She agreed, then turned to Marc. “Now shoo. I have to talk to my clients, nosy Mr. Lawman. Tell Adi that if it’s not too late, I’ll stop in on the way home.”

“All right, I can tell when I’m not wanted,” Marc said faking moroseness, and let himself out. Buddy, hearing him leave, whined and barked once from his crate.

“Do you mind if we let Buddy out? Or would you like to meet him, first? Are you okay with dogs?” Ben asked.

“I love dogs. Introduce us,” she said, and Ben walked her to Buddy’s crate, where, true to form, he made an instant friend, and was let out to get head rubs and ear scritches from someone delightfully new. He followed Ben and Lumina back to the kitchen with a hopeful doggy smile.

Khalil watched them for a moment, then glanced at the clock above the window, astonished to find that it was both getting dark out and heading for dinner time. They’d missed lunch entirely. “I don’t know about you, Ms. Unduli, but I’m starving. Can I make you a quick dinner with us?”

“Only if you’ll stop calling me Ms. Unduli. If you’re a friend of Marc and Adi’s you’re grandfathered in on the law of first names. You too, Mr. Kenner.”

“All right then, we’re Kal and Ben.”

“I’m Mina, but don’t call me Lu no matter how close we are,” she said with a smile. “Will it interfere with your cooking to tell me this story?”

“Not at all,” Khalil assured her, “because Ben can tell you. Crepes and salad okay? Are you vegetarian?”

“Crepes are divine. And I’m an omnivore. Tell me this story, Ben.”

So Ben did while Khalil listened, occasionally adding a detail, as he made the salad and mixed crepe batter, then turned out plates of ham and swiss-filled crepes, and joined them at the bar.

“I can open a bottle of wine or we have beer,” Khalil offered.

“Water’s fine,” she said, gesturing at her glass. “I’ve got to drive home yet. And these really are divine,” she added after a taste of her crepe. “That’s sure not army food.”

“Only if you’re French,” Khalil confirmed. “Their idea of mess hall food is very different from ours. Marc and I used to sneak off to the UN mess hall when the French contingent was cooking.”

Mina looked astonished. “Marc? Mr. If-It-Didn’t-Moo-I-Won’t-Eat-It?”

“You’d be shocked at the things I’ve gotten him to eat,” Khalil laughed with Ben.

“I’ve seen it,” Ben confirmed. “The first time he and Adi came to dinner, Khalil made Persian food and Marc loved it.”

“He’s not adventurous, but I can usually shame him into trying something. And he’s not actually picky when you get things into him.”

“Well, bless you, dear man,” Mina said. “Marc needs friends like you.”

“Which is good, because I need friends like him,” Khalil agreed. “And apparently I need one like you, too. I hope we’ll stay in touch when this is over, as more than a business arrangement.”

Mina smiled. “Marc warned me you default to friendly. He seems to think that’s a bad thing.”

“He’s just protective of people he loves. Though he’d rather die than say it that way.”

Mina nodded. “So he would. But yes, I’d like that, Kal. Though I notice Ben calls you Khalil. Which do you prefer?”

“Either is fine. Kal is mostly left over from my army and consulting days. My parents and pre-army friends called me Khalil, usually. And that’s what my daughter mostly calls me.”

“Oh! Marc and Adi didn’t mention you had a daughter.”

Khalil couldn’t help the grin that spread over his face. “Marc and Adi don’t know about my daughter. They know Manizha, but not that I’m finally adopting her. That’s a new development that got lost in this militia shitshow. I tried to do it when she was a child, but there were too many complications, so that’s her graduation present. She’s getting her doctorate from the London School of Economics in July.” Khalil marveled that he sounded like every proud parent he’d ever heard. It was an intoxicating feeling, quite different from the usual pride he had always had in Manizha’s accomplishments.

“Congratulations to both of you! How wonderful. My son’s at Morehouse, pre-med, just finishing up this year. Heading to Cornell for med school.”

“Those are both good schools. Ben was thinking about Cornell for architecture school, but he’s still figuring out where he’s going to end up,” Khalil added. “He’s been working with David Salminen for the past couple of months to get his feet wet, when he’s not building and designing projects for me.”

“Oooo, that guy who does the funky sustainable design stuff. I’ve heard about him. Somebody made a stink about the windmill he put up at his office. Isn’t it totally off the grid?”

“It is,” Ben confirmed, “except for the municipal water and sewer, which he had to connect to by law within the city limits. Doesn’t surprise me somebody objected to the windmill,” Ben said “though he hasn’t mentioned that. Marring the view, I suppose.”

“Something like that,” Mina agreed. “Do you mind if we talk a little business over food?”

“Not at all,” Khalil said as Ben shook his head.

“Okay, then. I know you’re having another lawyer trace Adam’s assets for Molly’s divorce. I would advise that you stop that now because it might piss the Feds off. They’re going to be more efficient anyway, and I’ll make sure they keep us apprised of what they find. I don’t usually handle divorce work, but given the circumstances, I think it might be better if I took on Molly’s divorce case too. It’ll help insulate her from any culpability in Adam’s actions if we establish that she was an abused spouse, which doesn’t sound like it’s going to be hard.”

“Too freakin’ right,” Ben muttered.

“What about Ben?” Khalil asked. “Are they going to try to connect him up to Adam’s activities?”

“Depends on when this particular phase of them started. It’s not illegal to be part of a militia, or associated with people who are. It sounds like Adam went off the rails after the falling out with you, though, Ben, so I think you’re probably in the clear. Earlier than that, you were a minor and unless you were building bombs yourself, not responsible for reporting his actions, even if you knew about them. And we could probably argue that you were abused like your mother, yes?”

Ben made a face. “Yes,” he said shortly. “I didn’t know anything, anyway. He never talked about what he and his militia pals did, at least in front of me. I don’t think he did with Mom, either, but I’m not positive. He kept us pretty isolated. We hardly went anywhere without him because he had the only transportation. I managed to sneak off now and then when I got older, thanks to friends, but I don’t think Mom ever did.”

“That’s good, in this case, hard as it must have been for the two of you.”

“My question, ” Khalil said. “is what do we do with the $250K in the safe? And I should tell you that we managed to make copies of all the financial docs in that box before Marc got here. Ben scanned them in.”

Mina gave him a wolfish grin. “I love smart clients. And I’m glad I kept your computers out of the Feds’ hands. Not that it would look bad for you to have copies, but I’m glad we’ve got them.”

Ben returned the grin. “Oh, we’d have them even if they’d taken the computers, but thanks for that. I do daily backups of everything into the cloud and external hard drives, and I made an extra backup of these on a thumb drive too. Then I put all of the hard drives in the safe. Hang on. I’ll get you the thumb drive.”

“Well done, you,” Khalil said. Ben grinned and made a quick bow and headed for the stairs.

“I _do_ love smart clients,” Mina repeated, as Ben disappeared upstairs. “Meanwhile, how sure are you that the cash is from the house sale?”

“Pretty sure,” Khalil replied slowly. “We didn’t get a detailed look at the bank statements before the shit hit the fan, but there was nothing like that kind of money moving into his accounts at the time of the sale, that I noticed. I’d be glad to get it out of the house. It’s far more than I usually have on hand, even in the safe.”

Mina took a deep breath. “I think it should go in an escrow account, held until we can get the assets sorted out and Molly divorced. I can do that for you. And I’ll let the Feds know about it it, in that _oops, slipped our mind_ way after it’s squirreled away and I’ve confirmed it’s money from the house sale and not from Adam’s militia buddies. That might take a court order, FYI, but I hope not.”

Ben reappeared with the thumb drive just as Khalil breathed a sigh of relief. “That sounds like a good solution,” and he repeated what Mina had suggested to Ben, who agreed, and seemed equally relieved. “Is that something I could do?” Khalil asked her. “It’s a lot of money for you to transport. I’ve got a chassis-welded floor safe in the back of my SUV that can probably hold it all.”

Mina gave him a fascinated look. “I should probably do the setting up of the account, but if you could meet me at the bank—and I’ve got one I usually use for this kind of thing—that would be fantastic. I was actually worried about that.” She cocked her head at Khalil. “What kind of vehicle do you have that comes with a big chassis-welded safe? Or did you have that installed?”

“Former diplomatic vehicle. I drove one around Bahrain and decided I wanted one when I came back stateside, so I bought it at a government auction. It’s armored, too, which is a good thing, considering how Ben and I met.”

“I am never going to fucking live that down,” Ben muttered, hiding his face in his hands.

“It’s a great story, love,” Khalil said, laughing. “Like a bad romance novel. _He took a shot and missed. Little did he know they were destined for each other._ ”

Ben looked at him in horror while Mina started to laugh. “I have _got_ to hear this story,” she said finally, wiping her eyes delicately.

“You tell it,” Ben said. “I’m too embarrassed.”

So Khalil did, with enthusiasm and amusement and a peck to Ben’s temple—whose nearby ears were very red—when he was done.

“So you’re the young man Adi was helping out,” Mina said, surprised. “I would never have made that connection.”

“That’s thanks to Adi and Marc and Khalil, if you couldn’t. I was the worse kind of backwoods hick when Khalil and I met.”

“Except that you’d read an entire library’s worth of books, educating yourself,” Khalil reminded him. “And you haven’t stopped.”

“I’d have to agree, Ben,” Mina said. “That’s not the kind of transformation that happens this quickly without something to work with. And it _is_ a funny story. Even better than meeting my husband in the back of a paddy wagon. I was the one wearing handcuffs.”

“Now that sounds like a good story,” Ben said, perking up a little.

“I’ll tell you some time over drinks,” Mina said. “But I should get going. I’ve still got some things to take care before court next week and I need to stop off and see Adi, or she’ll have my head. I’ll call you when I’ve talked to the bank, fellas, and we’ll get that money out of your safe as soon as possible. Thank you for dinner.”

“Do you need a retainer before you go?” Khalil asked.

“Marc says you’re good for it. That’s good enough for me. I’ll bill you monthly?”

“That’s fine,” Khalil agreed.

“Stay out of trouble, my new friends,” she said as Khalil helped her into her coat. She turned and surprised him with a hug when it was on. “And if you can’t, call me first and the cops second.”

“Thanks for your help, Mina,” Ben said, stepping up for his own hug at her insistence, and then waving her out the door. “Say hi to Adi for us!” he called after her and got a thumbs up.

When the door was closed, Ben leaned forward and softly banged his head on it until Khalil turned him around and wrapped his arms around Ben’s shoulders.

“Jesus. Fucking. Christ,” he said, voice muffled against Khalil’s chest.

“Yeah,” Khalil agreed, sighing. “Well, one good thing: you’ll have a lot less shite to go through when the Feds are done. The rental will probably be a bigger mess, though. Those assholes never put anything back. But they’ll probably clear out the storage spaces.”

“And there go my father’s tools, too, which were largely the point of the exercise. Plus a few of my own.”

“No help for it, love. And I suspect your father is going to be in jail a lot longer than his current sentence when this shakes out. You may just want to sell everything and put the proceeds in an escrow account for him too. I don’t know how much of what he’s got now that doesn’t go to Molly will survive the Feds anyway. They may seize a lot of his property if his mental illness doesn’t provide him with some kind of shield from the charges. And I wouldn’t count on that unless the Feds can tie it to the rest of the militia.”

“Here’s hoping that doesn’t apply to the cash.”

“If anybody can hang onto that, I think it’ll be Mina.”

Ben stepped back and grinned up at him. “I really like her,” he said, moving into the kitchen and starting to clean up.

“Me too,” Khalil agreed, sitting at the bar. Ben handed him an after-dinner cup of coffee, and then started to load the dishwasher. I can see why she and Adi have stayed friends since their undergrad days. They’re a lot alike.”

“They are. Both badasses. You know,” Ben said, straightening up and closing the dishwasher. “What I’d really like right now is a stiff drink, but I’m too tired to do anything about it. So I guess I’ll settle for coffee. Christ, what a day. Didn’t I say that yesterday? I hope that’s the end of it for a while.”

“What a great idea,” Khalil said. “Get that bottle of Knob Creek out of the bar, since you’re standing right next to it, and grab the cream. Then get yourself a cup of coffee.” In short order, they both had what Khalil called half-assed Irish coffees. “The cream should be whipped, but fuck it. I’m too tired, too.”

They clinked cups and both took a sip. Khalil closed his eyes in bliss.

“Oh,” Ben said. “Oh, that’s perfect. Yeah, this could get to be a real addiction. Can we go sit on the couch?”

“Aye, that’s a grand idea too. After you.”

Some time several hours later, Khalil started awake, wondering what had woken him. He and Ben had snuggled together on the couch, finishing their coffees in companionable and sleepy silence, his arm around Ben’s shoulder, Ben under his wing and pressed against his chest, where he was now drooling down Khalil’s shirt. He chuckled a little and Ben snorted and yawned and sat up.

“C’mon, boyo. Let’s go to bed,” he said, and started to stand up before the world went white and loud.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Picking up the pieces. NSFW

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry you all had to wait so long for this. Blame the fuckhead insurrectionist traitors who attacked the capitol building on Wednesday. This should have been done then, but I discovered it's really hard to write smut when your country's on fire.

When he came to again, Khalil was on his face in cold air and the light was strobing red-white-red-white. There was a blanket covering him and he felt carpet beneath his palm and cheek and couldn’t remember what the hell he and his _ifrit_ had gotten up to. Whatever it was, it had left him with a hell of a headache and ringing ears, and—as he started to move—a stabbing pain in his side that overwhelmed the thousand little and not so little pains that he was suddenly aware of, and added a wave of nausea. He closed his eyes and swallowed heavily, trying to keep dinner where it belonged. Somewhere in the back of his head he realized this was probably not shenanigans he’d gotten up to with Ben.

Cold air. Flashing lights. Ringing ears. Headache and nausea.

_Fuck._

_What blew up?_ he wondered vaguely, his head clearing somewhat under the headache. _And where’s Ben? And Buddy?_ He was suddenly, stupidly, really worried about the dog. Ben, he felt certain, could take care of himself, had probably taken care of him. Did he know that?

“Ben—” he thought he said but couldn’t really hear even his own voice and whenever he took too deep a breath, someone stabbed his side with a knife. He tried again, in what he hoped was a louder tone, felt a hand touch his shoulder and then his jaw lightly. Even that light touch reverberated through his head, but he opened his eyes again anyway. It was Marc’s face, not Ben’s, above him, and he felt himself teetering on the edge of another flashback, gaze darting around the room. Marc tapped his jaw again, sending more reverberations through his head, and pointed two fingers at his own eyes and mouthed the words: _Look at me, asshole._ Khalil grinned despite the fact that it hurt to do so. _Not Afghanistan. Home. Ben is fine. Don’t move._

“Buddy? Where’s Buddy?” he said, or thought he did.

_Damn dog is fine. At neighbors. Shut up. Don’t sleep._

But he must have, or passed out again, because the next thing he knew, he was totally immobile from the neck down on a really uncomfortable surface and had the sensation of flying. _Fuck,_ he thought again and retreated into unconsciousness, not entirely involuntarily.

The third time was the charm, apparently, and he woke to a softly daylit room, the curtains closed and leaking just a little light, in what smelled like hospital, and was, in fact. The ringing in his ears had gone, but they still felt clogged. He knew from experience that this was par for the course and would probably clear up in a few days. His head still felt like someone had used it as an anvil though, and he was glad the lights were low. One side of him felt sore and bruised and the other raw, and he seemed to be bandaged there from hip to forehead. And—he ran shaky fingers over his chin—they’d shaved his beard, dammit. There were cuts across the bridge of his nose and chin too, butterflied together. _Flying glass,_ he surmised. The stabbing sensation was gone, but that spot hurt like hell still. There was an oxygen tube up his nose, and a line in his arm, and—shit—a catheter.

Someone took his hand and he turned his head in that direction, wincing at the spikes of pain and stiffness in his neck, thankful he wasn’t wearing a neck brace.

“Hey,” Ben said, giving him a smile that was more of a grimace. “Can you hear me okay?”

He thought about nodding, vetoed it, and tried speaking. “Yes,” he said, his voice sounding like it was coming down a long tunnel. Ben’s did too. “Not well, yet. Go slow. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Ben said, squeezing his hand a little. And he looked fine, if a little pale and obviously tired, with just a few small cuts on one side of his face. “I got pushed back into the couch and it shielded me from the worst of it. Just some cuts on my back and shoulders, a couple of stitches in my scalp. But you got thrown and smacked in the head with something and a big fucking shard of glass in your side. The EMTs had you med-evaced to the VA. Adi flew you over, believe it or not. Tom Nikkari drove me over while Marc was busy at the scene. But they radared your thick skull and you seem okay, and they got the shard out. You’ve got a concussion though, and you’ll have to take it easy for a while. I’ll let the doc explain all the details.” By the end of this news dump, Ben was starting to tear up. “Goddammit, Khalil, you scared me. Don’t do that again, okay?”

“Sorry, boyo,” he rasped, weakly squeezing Ben’s hand. “I’ll do my best. The truck blew up? Your father’s? Or one of ours?”

“His truck, though I think mine is probably a loss now too. It took out most of my side of the garage. And that’s all I know. We’ll have to get the details from Marc. I suspect he’s still tied up with the Feds.”

“Buddy’s okay?”

“Buddy’s in ecstasy,” Ben said with a watery grin. “He was scared at the noise and mayhem but not hurt and was trying to wake you up when I found him. I’m glad he was in his usual spot behind the chair. Kit and Quin took him back to their house and the Nikkaris are spoiling him rotten, probably. He won’t want to come home.”

Relieved, Khalil just nodded once and fell asleep again.

He woke up again when the attending physician wandered in a little while after that, to elaborate on Ben’s news dump and berate him gently for showing up with IED wounds. “Haven’t seen that in a while and frankly hoped not to stateside, Colonel. Don’t move around too much. You had a big sliver of glass nestled in your right kidney, luckily not too deep, but it’s still draining.”

“Fuck,” Khalil muttered.

“Yes indeed,” the doctor agreed, and went on to tell him that the other cuts were mostly superficial, from flying glass that had been picked out of him painstakingly—246 pieces of it—and he had a few stitches here and there to close up the worst of them. There shouldn’t be any scarring, at least not anywhere very visible, but he’d been damn lucky none of the glass had gotten in his eyes. He was bruised and probably strained from being thrown around and from the shockwave, but nothing was broken, though it might feel like it for a time. No spinal trauma, but he’d probably be very stiff and would need to move to work that out. They’d probably get him up later this afternoon, a thought that almost made Khalil whimper. His hearing would likely return to normal shortly, but it might take as long as six weeks. His eardrums hadn’t been perforated and only one side suffered any damage. And they’d have to wait and see about the concussion. He’d lost consciousness and that was never good, so he might still develop further symptoms like dizziness, problems concentrating, light and noise sensitivity, disturbed sleep, and psychological problems.

“Yeah, I remember that. Like I don’t have enough of those already,” Khalil muttered.

“I see you have a counselor here,” the doctor said with a wry smile. “I’ll let him know what happened. You’ve had blast concussions before?”

“In Syria, about four years ago,” Khalil said, repressing a shudder. “No, closer to five, now. And Afghanistan, but that one was ... a long time ago.” He waved his hand weakly, unable to do the math.

The doctor shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. The effects can be cumulative. So we’re really going to have to keep an eye on you, and you’re going to have to _not_ push yourself, at all. No screens, reading, TV, hard thinking for at least a week if not longer. No strenuous activity. Walks are okay, but don’t tire yourself out. No running, no sex, no sports, no physical labor, no driving. Don’t do anything that makes your head hurt. Stick to Tylenol for the pain; you’ve done enough bleeding. If any of your symptoms get worse, especially the headache, come back and see us or get yourself to an ER immediately. R&R for you, Colonel, until further notice.”

“Yes, sir,” Khalil agreed, already exhausted again.

The first of his visitors appeared not long after. He was dozing when the VFW contingent—consisting of Will, Eric, Duke, and Jim—showed up, but forced himself awake when their voices penetrated the fog. They didn’t stay long, having been read the riot act by Ben, but wished him a speedy recovery and offered to help clean up the house when they were ready. Carlos, his shrink, dropped by to see how he was doing as well and suggested they suspend sessions until he’d recovered from his concussion. “If you need to talk though, just call. No need to come in or reschedule. I’ll get back to you ASAP.” Then one of the guys he was in group therapy with stopped by briefly with their speedy-recovery wishes, jokingly telling him he was triggering everybody, and he realized Carlos must have told them why he wasn’t there.

Marc, looking as exhausted as he felt, showed up just before visiting hours were over, with Adi, who gave him a very gentle kiss on his bruised forehead.

“You scared the living shit out of me, Kal,” she said softly. “When the boss called and told me I was doing a med-evac to the VA and you showed up on the gurney, I had a very unprofessional momentary freakout. Do. Not. Do. That. Again.”

“Motherfucker,” Marc added for good measure.

“Yes, Ma’am,” he said solemnly to Adi, and “Sir, go fuck yourself, in the nicest possible way, Sir,” to Marc. “Tell me what the fuck happened.”

“Adam Kenner’s shiny new truck blew up,” Marc said.

“Goddammit, I will kick your ass, Winston,” Khalil snarled, then stopped, wincing, and lowered his voice. “I am not in the mood for your bullshit. And if my head explodes, it’ll be your fault, and then Ben will kick your ass.”

“Right after I’m done,” Adi confirmed, giving Marc a Look of Death. “Tell the man what he needs to know, _Honey_.”

“Motion-sensitive IED,” Marc said, a little chastened. “According to the Feds. Here’s the kicker though: the bomber was a little too rough with it when he was planting it. Let’s just say you should be glad your driveway needs resurfacing.”

“Motherfucker,” Khalil echoed feelingly, while Ben looked sick. “But it was definitely meant for the truck?”

“Yeah, the mess was right up under it. The Feds think it might have been intended for them, since it should have been clear nobody was going to drive it again.” The look he shot at Khalil spoke eloquently of his own opinion on that.

“That’s if the jackass saw the evidence stickers in the dark and knew the Feds had been there that afternoon,” Ben said, brows meeting in a thunderous frown that somehow made Khalil feel very tender. It was nice to know one of them was capable of logical thought. “He could have seen me or Khalil driving it around. Or somebody saw it sitting in our drive from the trails.”

Khalil rubbed his forehead gingerly. His head was definitely starting to hurt more. And privately, he agreed with Ben and Marc. This was more likely meant for them than the Feds.

“Just one more thing and then we’ll go,” Marc started.

“And then we’re taking Ben home with us for food and a shower and sleep and a change of clothes. I’ll bring him back tomorrow,” Adi said. “Rumor has it they might be letting you out soon.”

“We’ve got plywood up over the broken windows and the door,” Marc told him, “but the place is still a crime scene, and probably will be for at least a few more days, if not longer. The ATF is coming in tomorrow, so there’s going to be a three-way skirmish for jurisdiction, because I am not being pushed out. I got you both some clothes, at least, and rescued your phones and keys and wallets, and the office and DOD laptops. That DOD hulk is still running, by the way, even though it was halfway across the house when I found it. You can stay with us as long as you need to, you know that. But I suggest you think about getting out of town for a while, you and Ben, until the Feds make some headway with this.”

And that was more disturbing than anything else Marc had said, that he should run from this fight. That he might have to run from it.

Unsurprisingly, his dreams were also disturbing that night, full of loud noises and gunfire and the stench of battles past. The night nurses woke him twice and each time he missed the warmth of Ben’s arms to curl up in, the comfort of sleeping back to back with him. The bed felt cramped and small and empty. He drifted in and out of sleep long after daylight, between nurses checking on him and trays of bad food and promises to get him unhooked from various devices soon.

Ben came back at some point during the day, not long after they’d removed the oxygen and catheter, and walked him up and down the hall in a new robe and slippers with his IV pole. Standing up hurt like hell, from head to toe, especially the stitch in his side, and the short walk and production of getting in and out of bed exhausted him. He felt like an old man. The wound drain came out next, and that heralded the likelihood of his release the next day, though he didn’t really feel ready for it and wished he was at least going home to his own bed. “It’ll be okay,” Ben assured him. “I’ve got you.”

Tom and Jill Nikkari stopped in to see how he was, and to let both of them know that Buddy had gotten over his scare and the kids were, as Ben had suspected, both spoiling and enjoying him. “We’ll keep an eye on the place when the cops go,” he told Khalil. “Right now it’s like watching CSI. The neighbors in that house are sure entertaining,” Tom joked, and Khalil appreciated his good humor about it. They gave Ben a ride back to Adi’s. Khalil picked at his dinner and then tried to sleep, with the same results as the night before.

When he finally woke the next morning, feeling groggy and cranky and still tired, he lay in bed wanting coffee and doing what Marc had suggested, little as he liked it: thinking about where he and Ben might go for a while. It was harder work than it should have been to summon up his knowledge of US geography and think which parts of the country would be pleasantly warm at this time of year. To save his life, he couldn’t think of the city in Louisiana where Mardi Gras was every year, or what time of year it was held, or where the big naval base was in California, even though he’d been there, or what the little islands off the tip of Florida were called, the ones connected to it with that long bridge. He closed his eyes and dozed off for a while and woke up with the vague thought that if he was going to be invalided out, he wanted somewhere warm, with a beach or a pool where he could soak up the sun, and relatively nearby to not aggravate his concussion by airplane travel. It was really a shame the states didn’t have better train service, he thought. A long train trip sounded nice. He also wanted somewhere with housekeeping and room service so Ben didn’t have so much caretaking to do, because apparently he was going to be pretty stupid and incapable for a while.

There was really no decision to be made before he talked to Ben, but by the time breakfast had come and gone and the doctor had affirmed his discharge, he had fought his way through the new and disturbing fog enough to have a few places in mind. If he could manage to remember them later. List. He needed a list.

Ben and Adi appeared in the early afternoon, with soft, thick sweats and a new coat and new boots for him since the old ones had been ripped to shreds by or were embedded with flying glass. Ben was wearing new ones, too. Khalil was thankful his expensive coats had been in the upstairs closet.

As he was getting dressed, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and was surprised to see he was sporting two black eyes—testament to the severity of the blow he’d suffered. He still wondered what had hit him, or what he’d hit, and was thankful Ben had escaped that. He was also looking very scruffy and would until the beard grew enough to be trimmed into shape again. He was still finding bits of glass in his hair and contemplated just shaving it off, but Ben, in horror, offered to brush it out for him in Marc’s garage and that seemed to take care of the problem. It took a while, and by the time they were done and Ben had swept the tiny shards up and disposed of them, Khalil was relaxed and ready for a nap again.

“Kal, you are not to be your usual helpful good guest self while you’re here,” Adi told him in her Mom Voice when they came in. “Just rest and take it easy and let Ben and I take care of you, while Marc’s off finding the assholes who did this. If you need something, just ask. Otherwise, do what you need to do to get well.” She hugged him gently.

Per instructions, he napped most of the rest of the day away in the guest room, and discovered that while he’d slept, Ben had organized some new clothing for them, taken delivery of their laptops, phones, and wallets and keys, and was already looking at new windows. When Ben showed him the choices, he couldn’t stay focused long enough to make a decision. “I’ll leave it to you, love,” he said, rubbing his forehead. “I’m not really up to thoughtful, complex decisions right now, and I know we have to get new windows in. I do like the bay window for the front and that little greenhouse window for the kitchen, if that helps. Whatever you think best, boyo; I trust your recommendations. You’re earning your keep this week and I give you _carte blanche_. Just invoice me for materials, as usual. We’ll worry about wrestling with the house insurance later. Or I’ll just sic the lawyer on them.”

He picked at dinner, though it was a lovely roasted chicken and veggies, and excused himself early to clean up as best he could while still covered in bandages and stitches, and crawl into bed. He felt logy and stupid, but was still awake when Ben came in for the night. The bed was not as big as they were used to, but it was a grand excuse to cuddle close that both he and Ben didn’t just welcome but craved, though it took some careful maneuvering around his injuries.

“Why aren’t you asleep?” Ben murmured as Khalil settled himself into Ben’s arms and was tucked under his chin.

“Probably the concussion fucking with my sleep patterns,” Khalil admitted. “It’s happened before, after Syria. This might take a while to get over.”

“I’ll have a fellow night owl after all,” Ben teased gently. “At least for a while.” He kissed Khalil’s forehead. “Nice of Adi and Marc to take us in.”

“It is, but it’s also just like them.”

“Well, they’re not like you and your strays.”

“No, but they’re big-hearted people, both of them, and loyal to their friends.”

“It’s funny the way Marc shows that,” Ben observed. “He’s just seething right now, furious that somebody almost killed us, you especially. I would not want him in the same room with the people who planned this.”

“Yeah, that’s Marc. He’s got a motherfucker of a temper that he keeps clamped down tight. It’s never pretty when that gets off the leash. There’s a bit of the berserker in him.” _And in me, too,_ Khalil admitted to himself, remembering his own battle blackouts and aware of the rage that was simmering just below the surface now. “He used to spend a lot of time in the dojo or the gym working it off, and he’s calmed down a lot since I first knew him. Not surprised something like this would set it off again.”

Ben had started running his fingers through Khalil’s hair, which made him sleepy. “I really enjoyed you brushing my hair,” he murmured and yawned.

“I’ll do it again, then, anytime you want. Go to sleep, you big goof. I love you.”

And he must have, because that was all he could remember of the night. Ben’s presence seemed to keep any nightmares at bay. He slept late the next morning and woke with only a dull tightness in his head. By the time he got up and dressed, even Ben was up, and Adi had gone to work, leaving them the run of the house and orders to make themselves at home, which Khalil knew from experience was meant quite literally. It took almost two cups of coffee before Khalil felt awake enough to call the lawyer he’d sicced on Adam’s finances to tell him to stop, and found that Mina, bless her, had already contacted him and apprised him of the situation, including the bombing.

“I’m still going forward with the adoption though. Just bill me for what you did on the finances already, and let me know when the papers are ready,” Khalil told him, and hoped he didn’t sound as drunk as he felt. When he hung up, Ben actually took his phone from him with a look and squirreled it away somewhere he couldn’t find it again.

Barred from his laptop too, he asked Ben to email Manizha to let her know what had happened, and tell her the adoption papers were in progress. Ben already had, and read Manizha’s response to him, which had been full of fire and fury, raining what Khalil’s quick glance confirmed were curses in Pashto down on the heads of the infidels who had hurt him and Ben, and an offer to fly over and help take care of him. Ben had reassured her that they were both being well looked after and that “her dad 😉😎😁” would contact her himself when he was feeling better and able to use his electronics, or hold a cogent conversation again. She’d written back to ask Ben to “tell _Babu_ I love him” and that she’d told Helen there would be a delay in his getting in touch with her.

“Christ and Allah, I can’t remember who that is,” Khalil growled, rubbing his forehead.

“Worry about it later,” Ben advised. “It doesn’t sound urgent anyway. Hey, you need breakfast. How about an omelet?” And he proceeded to make one when Khalil agreed. It seemed like the first real food he’d eaten in days, or at least the first he’d had any taste for, and that didn’t threaten to come up again.

“Did I remember to tell you Manizha’s graduating in July and wants us to come over to London for it? Or did that get lost in the mayhem and my fog?”

“No, you neglected to mention that,” Ben said. “I guess I should get that passport applied for, then. Cool. And think of a suitable gift, although there’s no topping yours.”

“Well, despite her anti-capitalist ways, she likes pretty stones. Not diamonds so much, but colored stones, everything from, uh, the purple ones to emeralds. And bangles. Gold or rose gold. Don’t spend too much or she’ll be mad, although I’m inclined to let her be mad. You don’t get a whatsit degree every day. Christ and Allah, I hate this not being able to think of words. I’ve lost half my vocabulary.”

“Early days yet, love. It’ll come back if you take it easy. Amethysts?” Khalil nodded. “And you’re her dad, so you’re supposed to spoil her whether she’s getting a doctorate or not,” Ben grinned.

It was so different to hear it acknowledged by someone else, rather than just think it to himself. It was as though hearing it from Ben validated it somehow, made it real. He knew he was wearing a soppy smile, and didn’t care in the least. “Remind me to tell Marc and Adi, would you? About the adoption and her graduation? I keep forgetting.”

“And speaking of going places,” Ben said, “have you thought about what Marc said? Us getting out of town? What do you think?”

“I don’t fucking like it, is what,” Khalil growled, mood turning on a dime, rage bubbling up like hot lava. He took a deep breath and swallowed it down again. “But I think we may have to for a while. I couldn’t plan a one-man rush on an outhouse right now.”

Ben nodded. “I’ve seen our house, too, and it isn’t livable, and won’t be even after we get the windows in. Not with you in the state you’re in: too much debris, too much cleaning, too much repair work to do. We can stay with Adi and Marc long enough to get the windows in, then drain the pipes and leave it until spring, so you won’t have to make any other decisions about it until then, at least. I can take care of the winterizing while you lounge around here. I’ve already talked to Diana about taking care of the plants for us, and Tom said they’d be happy to keep an eye on the house and take care of Buddy as long as we’re away. I’ll get them a gift card from the pet store to pay for his chow.”

“The glass in the conservatory didn’t break? That’s good,” Khalil said. He hadn’t even thought about that. Christ and Allah.

“Nope, set far enough back that the house shielded it. The blast blew off some of the shakes on the front and side, but that’ll keep. We lost all the front and side windows nearest the garage, and the porch screens will need replacing. So will the floodlights and your Edison bulbs. But my tacky party lights are fine,” he said with a cheeky smile that Khalil appreciated.

“How’s the garage?” Khalil asked, wondering if the tank had survived the blast.

Ben looked pissed then. “I might as well tear it down and start over, it’s so mangled. And my poor truck is just twisted wreckage. It’s a wonder the gas tank didn’t explode. But from what I can see, I think the tank looks okay. The back window was still intact, not even cracked. Damn, that thing is tough.”

“That was a good investment, then,” Khalil agreed. “Why are you angry about the garage? We’ll rebuild it.”

“I’m pissed because it was the first thing I built for you. I know that’s stupid and it really is just a garage, but it still pisses me off that one of those fuckers ruined something I did for you.”

Khalil brushed his hand over Ben’s head. His hair was getting long again, and falling into his eyes more often and Khalil loved brushing it aside. “I understand,” he said, “but it’s just a thing. The important part is that we’re both still here, when we could easily not have been.”

Ben went very still for a moment, then his expression crumpled and he sank his face in his hands, shoulders starting to shake, the stress of the last couple of days finally catching up to him in a rush. Khalil pulled the younger man to him as they sat together at Adi’s kitchen table and held him until he wiped his eyes and sat up again.

“Jesus, Khalil, when I picked myself up off the couch and saw you on the floor with your face covered in blood, bleeding out on the carpet—”

“I know. It must have been pretty damn shocking. It always is. I’m sorry you had to see that, love. I hope that’s the last you’ll see of it, ever, and that it won’t come back in your sleep.”

“I mean, it’s not the first time I’ve seen people I love hurt,” Ben went on and blew his nose, “but this was different. It was you, and it was so sudden and … impersonal, and I—I thought you were dead.”

He gingerly pulled Ben close again and kissed the top of his head. “I’m not. I’m not even hurt that bad. It just feels like it,” he said with a lopsided smile.

“And there was so much other damage,” Ben went on. “Your poor couch.”

“A bit shredded, is it?”

Ben nodded. “That one end of it. And probably elsewhere too.”

“That’ll be a good reupholstery job then, for someone.”

“Why not just get a new one?” Ben said curiously.

Khalil was aghast. “You don’t abandon things that have saved your life unless you have to. Besides, we have history now, you and I and that couch, in addition to the history it had before. That’s what makes a great antique, all the stories in it. So we’ll mend it and keep it, if possible. You all right with that?”

Ben nodded. “I am. I feel kind of grateful to it anyway, for saving my bacon.”

Khalil hugged him again. “So do I.”

By the time Adi came home, he and Ben had made a plan and they had a formidable pile of lists in front of them, both Khalil’s and Ben’s. What would have taken an hour or two at most under normal circumstances had taken them most of the day, with breaks for Khalil when his head began to hurt or the fog got too thick. He’d napped on and off while Ben puttered in the kitchen, taking apart the carcass of Adi’s roast chicken and making stock. The house filled with the delicious smell of it, while Ben rummaged for flour to make bread and pie crust.

Marc actually came home grinning, which surprised everybody.

“Have I got a story for you,” he said, and then sniffed the air. “Hey, is that chicken soup?”

“Stock, and casserole,” Ben replied. “There’s bread in the oven, too. And a pie.”

“Is his food edible?” Marc asked Khalil suspiciously. “Aside from the pie.”

“To normal people, yes. You, I’m not so sure about. What’s the damn story?”

“The FBI lab found skunk remains under the truck.”

Ben got it first and he and Adi looked at each other and both lost it. By the time Khalil’s poor foggy brain caught up, they were in tears, and Marc was enjoying another good laugh too. Ben wiped his eyes after a couple of minutes and looked at Khalil still laughing, despite the fact that it made his head hurt, and burst out laughing again himself. Khalil kept trying to stop, but the irony was just too much.

“We kept wondering where that smell was coming from,” Marc said, grinning. “I thought it was Quin smoking his weed out back of his house, so I didn’t mention it.”

“You realize,” Khalil gasped, looking up at Ben from his crossed arms on the table, “that you saved our lives by talking me out of motion-sensitive lights for the drive because _they scared the wildlife away._ ”

“Told ya!” Ben crowed, and they were all off again. “Poor critter. There they were, probably just looking to get laid and make some skunk babies and there’s this hulking human invading their space under the truck,” Ben said, still chortling minutes later.

“That poor little skunk,” Adi agreed. “I wonder which one of them was more freaked out before the bomb went off.”

“Which bomb?” Marc said, and that set them off again themselves.

“I hope the bastard got sprayed right in the face before he blew himself up,” Khalil said spitefully. He raised his coffee cup. “Skunk, I salute you. It was a noble sacrifice. Or at least I think it was. The other skunks, probably not so much. And I have to go lie down again now, folks. Thanks for that story though, Marc. That made my fucking day.”

It took them more than two weeks to tie up the loose ends before they could leave, and before Khalil felt well enough and got the okay to travel. It was the end of that week before the Feds closed up shop and they had access to the house and grounds again. It was a testament to luck and Adam’s skill as a builder that the house was still standing at all but it was a sad sight, with the windows and door covered hastily in plywood and bald patches of cedar shakes on its facade, streaks of smoke and dirt everywhere, screens ripped and sagging on the porch. Ben had had a structural engineer—a colleague of the architect he was working for—inspect it before they went in, so they knew it was safe, at least. Ben levered the plywood off the door frame, which was badly splintered, and they went inside, where it was dark and gloomy, the only daylight coming through the French doors and the windows at the back, facing the forest. Only two of the overheads were working when Ben switched those on.

Khalil’s first sight of the house’s ground floor had infuriated him and nearly sent him into another flashback. It looked at first glance like his memories of every war zone he’d ever been in, and the damage it had done to people’s homes. Even with those memories battering him, he knew this was nothing in comparison, but it was bad enough. The shockwave had propelled glass and other debris everywhere through the open plan, as well as blown things off the wall and surfaces, scratching and gouging everything and triggering a chain reaction of destruction, from kitchenware to their TV and lamps and other furniture. At least one of Khalil’s paintings would need to be restored and another would need a new frame. Several panes of the French doors were cracked as well, and would have to be replaced. The walls would have to be replastered and repainted, the floor sanded and refinished. It was like starting over. At least there was a sound building to start over in. It was only in surveying the damage that Khalil realized how much he’d come to love this house and what he and Ben had made of it. He would not be chased out of it by a bunch of delusional, seditious play soldiers.

Khalil carefully swept up the glass so they wouldn’t scratch the floors more than the blast already had by walking on it, while Ben cleaned the perishables out of the fridge and took out the garbage, but they left the rest of the cleaning to the downstate crime scene cleanup company Marc had found for them. They had assured Khalil they had experience with antique rugs and gave him the references to prove it, so he was reassured by that. There was quite a lot of his blood on the rug in front of the couch and that was particularly _not_ a souvenir he wanted to keep. The poor couch, situated near two windows, really was in bad shape superficially and would have to be reupholstered, as Ben had warned him.

The tow truck arrived later that afternoon to pull the tank out of the garage. Extracting the SUV required some fancy maneuvering, since it was almost the only thing holding up that side of the garage and it had to be steered around the half-melted crater in the drive, but the tow operator managed it with finesse, leaving it well down the drive for them. What remained of the structure shivered then folded in neatly on itself when the tank came out.

“Looks like we’ll have to wait to get your truck, or what’s left of it, out of there,” Khalil said when the dust settled down. “And anything else that survived. I’m glad we put your mother’s canning in the basement and that none of those windows broke. I can’t even see the gun safe.”

“Yeah, I think it’s pretty effectively buried. This is going to take a backhoe to dig out and I don’t have those mad skillz yet.”

“I’ve driven a backhoe before,” Khalil admitted, “but it was a long time ago. We’ll get a skip and hire somebody who knows what they’re doing. Let’s see how the tank fared.”

The SUV was scarred and a little dented but seemed sturdy enough. Ben popped the hood and dug around for a bit checking hoses and wiring, then started to roll under it on the creeper they’d picked up on the way over.

“Watch out for skunks,” Khalil warned.

“Very funny, you,” Ben retorted, but still laughed. When he’d given it the okay, Khalil hit the ignition, and the tank fired right up, sounding none the worse for wear, despite its battle scars. Khalil wished he were as tough.

They packed clothing and did one last walk-through, Ben taking pictures for the insurance company, though they would doubtless send their own assessor. Then he rigged up a new jackleg door with plywood and two by fours and padlocked it shut with a chain, which somehow made the house seem even sadder, as though it had been condemned.

Once the tank was liberated and he’d spoken to Mina to set up the appointment, they came back and transported the money from the upstairs safe to the tank’s safe and met her at the bank to offload it. Ben was doing the driving now, because Khalil still did not trust himself to with the dizzy spells he was still having. Mina had fussed over them both a little, and seemed relieved they were both okay. “If you need help with the insurance companies, let me know,” she offered.

“Thanks, Mina,” Khalil said, and he was genuinely grateful, knowing this was not her usual sort of work. “I’ve got a lawyer who handles my business and finances who’s positively sharklike, so I don’t think we’ll have much difficulty, though I don’t actually know if I’m insured against acts of terrorism. He may have taken care of that though, when I bought the house. I confess I didn’t pay much attention to that policy, at the time. Silly me.”

“Can’t plan for every contingency, no matter how smart you are,” Mina told him, shaking her head. “And nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition. Take care of yourself. You’re brand new friends, and I expect to get years of wear and tear out of you yet. I’ll keep you posted on any developments on the financial end.”

Khalil thought later, when they’d done as much as they could for the moment, that it wasn’t the damage to the building or objects that angered him; they could always be replaced and repaired. It was the gratuitousness of it, and utter disregard for human life that had led to it. The tow driver from the FBI crime lab, who would have set it off if the bomber had been successful, would have died, and whoever else was near him, too. Which might have been either himself or Ben, or both, or Marc, or another FBI agent—or one or more of the Nikkaris’ curious and friendly kids, who had been coming over to play with Buddy since their first visit. As far as he was concerned, this was a declaration of open hostilities, more so than the attacks at the dojo, which had just been a stupid mob. IEDs were weapons of war, the kind he had encountered during his military service and as a consultant afterwards. “Domestic terrorism” didn’t begin to cover it, in his view. This was guerilla warfare. And sedition if it was aimed at the FBI. Everything before had just been skirmishes with bigoted fools. For once, though, he wasn’t sure what to do about it. It was frustrating to be openly attacked and not be able to respond to it with any kind of authority. And to be too banged up to do so with any kind of real strength.

They got the windows installed, finally, the following week. Though Ben’s father had cut the originals to standard sizes, Ben had some special requirements that had taken some time to fabricate, even with a rush order and extra incentive$. The results made them worth waiting for. There was a new, deep bay window in the front that Khalil already wanted to fill with cushions and plants, and double-hungs everywhere else, all with multipane grills and impact-resistant glass in fiberglass, energy-efficient casements. The installation itself went pretty smoothly with the experienced crew, and Ben repaired their front door framing—which had splintered when the door was blown open in the blast—at the same time. The house looked a little less sad when they were done, despite the scorched and melted drive and pile of wreckage where the garage had been.

“It’s secure enough for now,” Ben told Khalil, “and I know the Nikkaris will keep an eye on it and collect our mail, but I want to make a new door when we get back. There are security system sensors built into the windows, so you’ve got the option of installing one of those, later, and it won’t mar the look. But this should hold us for now. It’ll be snug in whatever weather’s coming this way, and I’ll drain the pipes before we go.” Ben let out an annoyed huff. “I was going to build you your bathhouse this summer, but instead, I think I’m going to be doing repairs and building another garage. Which pisses me off.”

Khalil ruffled his hair, which was full of sawdust. “The bathhouse is a very low priority. We’ve got contractors for the guest house and the VFW renovation, and those are what I care about most. And if you’ll train an apprentice as you go, I can help. I should learn some of this while you’re here to teach me, so I can make myself useful when you’re at school. And maybe the occupational therapy will get my brain in gear again.”

“Well, you did a great job on the swing. It survived the blast better than pretty much anything else that was outside. We’ll see how well you do with framing and roofing then, Apprentice Cahill. We should get you a union card.”

Khalil snorted a laugh. “Manizha would love that irony. Have you got one?”

“No, but I’ve been thinking about getting one, eventually. Not before I go off to school though. It’s another four year training program. I might be able to do it concurrently somewhere.”

“I’d have to pay you more with a union card. And let you knock off work after 8 hours,” Khalil teased.

“Yeah, you slavedriver. You are the worst boss. Actually, I think you’re already paying me the going rate for full union members. That’s probably illegal or something. But seriously, yeah, I’ll be happy to teach you what I know, which is not, by any means, everything about carpentry there is to know. But first I’m going to have to buy some new tools, probably. No idea what happened to anything in the garage, or the toolboxes in the back of what’s left of my truck. I had to buy a new hammer and saw and drill just to fix the damn door.”

When Khalil had broached the subject of where they should retreat to, there wasn’t much discussion. “I’ve got no preferences, for one thing,” Ben said, “and no experience to base them on. And you’re the one with the injuries; you know what you need. You pick, I’ll tag along. Wherever we go, it’ll be different from here, and I’m game for that.”

“Careful what you wish for, boyo,” Khalil warned him, only half joking. “In situations like these, I tend to revert to type.”

So they ended up in Montecito, just outside Santa Barbara, in an obscenely luxurious 4,000 square foot villa at the Four Seasons Biltmore with a view of both the oceans and the mountains, a plunge pool, two terraces with fireplaces, a “jungle shower” _and_ a couples shower _and_ a massive soaking tub—and a king size bed, to Khalil’s relief. As cozy as it had been with Ben in the Winstons’ guest room, he was glad to have room to stretch out again, both in bed and in general. Ben spent a couple of days trying not to obviously goggle at their surroundings and looking supremely uncomfortable until Khalil pointed out that the only people paying any attention to him were young women about his own age and a couple of equally young men they met at the cocktail lounge (“because there are no bars here,” Ben observed) who were all trying to figure out if Khalil was his father or his lover. And it was mostly his ass they were paying attention to. Nobody was judging him on anything but his looks at the moment.

“And as Manizha will tell you for as long as you’ll listen, rich people aren’t special; they just think they are.” They were lying on the sun couches on their pool terrace, both of them still wet from a soak. Khalil’s bruises had mostly faded down to a sickly yellow now and the stitches had been removed before they left. He still looked like he’d gone a couple of rounds with a weedwhacker and the weedwhacker had won. But after only a couple of days in the sun, he was getting tan again. “Most of them are like me, with inherited wealth they did nothing to earn and don’t know what to spend on, so they flit from one resort like this to another trying to entertain themselves with gossip. Their opinion of you is meaningless.”

Ben gave him an annoyed frown. “I get it, Khalil. I’ve heard this lecture before. Everybody puts their pants on the same way, blah blah blah. I appreciate the largesse and I will loosen up and enjoy myself. But you’re going to have to be patient with me too. I’m having a hard time convincing myself I belong here, because my chances of ending up with someone like you, in a place like this, were about as good as hitting Powerball for nine digits twice in a row. Everything about this aspect of your life is brand new to me, and kind of unreal. I don’t have any reference points for normal behavior in a place like this. I wish I could just make my insecurities vanish too, but we’re both stuck with them.”

Khalil winced, remembering Manizha’s advice. He reached out for Ben’s hand, his own palm up, and watched Ben trustingly take it. “I’m sorry, boyo. You’re right. I’m being an insufferable, privileged rich prick again. This must all seem really unnatural to you, and you’re right, it is. That’s why I don’t do this often. It’s too easy to start thinking this is normal. In my defense—although it’s not an excuse—I had a bad scare and it’s difficult to think clearly right now so I’m retreating to my last, best fallback position, where I don’t have to think much because someone else is seeing to my wants and needs, and hopefully yours too. And I know my patience isn’t great right now either, or my temper. I’m sorry.”

“I noticed you’ve been a lot saltier than usual,” Ben agreed with a crooked smile. “I chalked that up to the concussion. It’s okay. I kinda like this version too. He seems a little less perfect, like me.”

“I think that sound you just heard was my pedestal smashing,” Khalil said with a raised eyebrow. “I guess if it took a concussion to do it, I can live with that. Believe me, Ben, I can be just as big an asshole as Marc or anyone else. You heard those stories we were telling at dinner. We’ve always egged each other on when Adi wasn’t there. You’re seeing more of that side of me now, in part because I feel threatened and in part because I think this concussion has fucked with my self-control. And brought out the privileged asshole side of me Manizha has always tempered, that you’re also tempering now.”

Khalil had the grace to feel a little chagrined too. “I probably should have explained what I meant by ‘reverting to type’ better. I forget sometimes that we don’t know each other that well, and you don’t have Marc’s history with my idiosyncrasies. I don’t often indulge myself like this, but I think a violent near-death experience has earned us both some pampering, and Christ and Allah know I can afford it. I’ve also mostly been alone my whole life, except for those three years with Michael, and this is what I’ve done when I’ve needed to take care of myself.”

“I thought you went off to Zen temples in Japan?” Ben said, needling a little with a tiny smile.

“I did most of the time,” Khalil acknowledged, giving Ben the jibe. He deserved that. “But every now and then, something would happen that was just so … awful, that I needed to not be reminded of the omnipresence of suffering for a while. I needed a little familiar, comfortable decadence.”

Ben nodded. “I don’t see anything wrong with that, Khalil. You don’t need to apologize for that, or for who you are. It’s just going to take me some time to get used to, because the only place I ever saw this kind of life was on glossy magazine pages. I wasn’t even sure it was real until I met you. So what are the rules? Which fork do I use?”

“The only rule, anywhere, any time, my love, is _Be Yourself._ As Oscar Wilde said, everyone else is taken. The awful thing about the rich is that they really do make the rules in so many arenas. It’s the worst open secret of any society. And since you’re in the company of one of them now, and he’s definitely reverting to type, that extends to you. And if someone’s offended, well, as that other great wit Marc Winston would say, boo-fucking-hoo.”

“What you do is up to you, and if you see something you think we should do together, by all means say so. But I should have warned you that I’m going to do a lot of lying in the sun and soaking in hot tubs and eating delicious things I haven’t cooked, and sleeping with my hot young boyfriend, and fucking him in all the showers and possibly the tub and the pool, too, and wandering around Santa Barbara with him looking at art and trying to find Manizha a present. My boyfriend and I might look for some new lamps, too. And I think there’s an architecture tour we could take. And there’s the ocean. And 22 acres of gardens to wander in here. And the casino. What the people staying here, other than my hot young boyfriend, think about that is of no interest to me. The only people who matter here right now are him and the folks providing me all the lovely services. They matter very much.”

“Yeah, I’ve seen your thank-you notes with the tips you leave housekeeping every day,” Ben said, apparently amused by Khalil’s manifesto. “Why every day though?”

“Good question. Because it’s different people every day, and if we waited until the last day to tip, only one person would get that. I appreciate that all of them are making what amounts to a self-indulgent fantasy possible and Christ and Allah know they’re not paid enough to put up with people like me.”

“You know,” Ben said with a smile, “if this is you being a rich asshole, I think I can live with that.”

“No, this me trying _not_ to be a rich asshole, and you helping. Believe me, I’ve been one, and it’s not pretty. It isn’t from anyone. I don’t doubt you’ll see some prime examples while we’re here, too. But one thing my rich parents taught me is that it’s much better to be genuinely welcomed by staff than it is to be merely tolerated. I don’t know that we’ll come back here again, but I’d like to be remembered fondly if we do. And I’d like to think it shames the rest of them, but it doesn’t.”

“Got it. So, act as if I belong here, Alisa would say, and be myself. And like large piles of greenbacks, I should get used to being around people like this in places like this, if I’m going to be with you.”

“And if you’re going to do any business with people like me, and I think you probably will eventually. In the meanwhile, think of it as a chance to study the rich in their native habitats instead of the glossy magazine pages.”

“Good point,” Ben admitted, and then got a sly and evil look on his face. “Now, did I hear you say something about fucking? Are you cleared for that kind of strenuous activity, sir?”

“Not quite, though it’s more the stitch in my side than the concussion. But that’s why I’m going to let my hot young boyfriend do all the work.”

“Well, then,” Ben said with a grin and stood up. “I’ll have to do a little prep work. And it’s time I got out of the sun anyway, unless you’d like a lobster in your bed instead of a hot young boyfriend.”

Khalil grabbed his hand as he went by. “That wasn’t an order, love. Lobster’s too messy for bed though, you’re right.”

“Oh, I know it wasn’t an order. I really do need to get out of the sun. This is way more of it than I’m used to, and I don’t have your base skin tone, even after a summer outside. But I still haven’t had lobster so I have no idea whether it’s too messy or not.”

“We’ll order them for dinner, then. They’re on the menu. Unless you’d like to go out.”

“Not tonight. I have plans,” he said mysteriously, “but lobster sounds like the perfect prelude. Stay put, I’ll take care of it.”

“Now you’re spoiling me,” Khalil protested. “You’re supposed to curb my worst impulses.”

“I like some of your worst impulses,” Ben said and leaned down to kiss him then disappeared back into the villa.

Khalil closed his eyes and turned his face up to the sunlight, letting it soak into him and warm all his healing injuries. After months of cold and artificial light, this felt heavenly and he decided he and Ben might need a more permanent warm retreat somewhere. He loved their home and the area around it in the other three seasons, but wasn’t sure he was cut out for winters in that climate, after so many years in the heat and sun. Something to discuss with Ben. It would give them an excuse to travel and look at property around the country.

They had dinner on one of the terraces that night, with a warm breeze coming in off the moonlit ocean, and Ben got his first taste of lobster, which proved to be just as messy as Khalil had warned and well worth the work of cracking the shells and digging for the best morsels. When housekeeping had taken their debris away and turned down their bed for the night, Ben suggested they sit out on the terrace where the firepit was already lit, and a tray of marshmallows, graham crackers, and chocolate bars waited with two toasting skewers. This being the Four Seasons Biltmore, the marshmallows and graham crackers were hand made, and the chocolate was a dark Valrhona. Khalil laughed when he saw them. “I’ve always wanted to try these. The troops would occasionally go on about them and I had no idea what the hell they were talking about.”

“This was one of the few treats I got as a kid,” Ben said, assembling the marshmallows and skewers. “We’d make them in winter in the fireplace. I guess most kids have these at camp, or in the summer. But if I see an open fire like this, it means s’mores.”

They toasted the marshmallows together, while the chocolate bars softened on top of the crackers near the fire. Khalil let his marshmallow catch fire then blew it out, getting a surprised look from Ben. “What? I like them that way.”

“You never really know people, do you?” Ben remarked, smiling impishly, and assembled their s’mores. “Not really the kind of dessert that goes with lobster,” he said, handing one to Khalil. “But who else would make s’mores for you?”

Khalil seemed surprised at the first bite. “These are … ridiculously good,” he said. “I imagine they are even with a cheap milk chocolate bar and store-bought marshmallows and crackers.”

“Not quite as good,” Ben corrected, “but still pretty darn good. This is great chocolate.”

“So, perfectly fitting for after a lobster dinner,” Khalil said. “And if you were a hotshot chef, you would describe this as _a high-end update to the traditional summer camp treat_ , or some such bullshit.”

“That’s pretty accurate though. The more I cook, the more I’m discovering that ingredients matter a lot. I may never make these with a Hershey bar ever again.”

They finished the tray and then sat enjoying the night air and the fire, talking about what they might do the next day and things they wanted to see in Santa Barbara. Ben wanted to find a sketchbook and a couple of artists’ pencils to sketch around the grounds and some of the ideas that the design here was sparking. Khalil mentioned the idea of having a warm-weather snowbird retreat, and Ben looked thoughtful. “I’m sure not averse to the idea. Here?”

“Not necessarily in Santa Barbara itself, but maybe Southern California? I was also thinking about the Florida Keys, though I haven’t been there, and I hear it’s been overrun by jerks like me.” They tossed around a few more places without any decisions being made and then fell silent, just sitting contentedly together until, eventually, Ben got up, said, “be back in a minute,” and went inside.

It was rather more than a minute, and when he came out again, he was wearing nothing but one of the big, fluffy towels around his waist. He held out his hand to Khalil and pulled him to his feet. Khalil followed with a bemused expression, willing to be surprised, though he had a fair idea of what Ben had cooked up. He wasn’t far from wrong in the vague outline, but the execution was unexpected.

Ben led him into the spa-like bath where the enormous soaking tub was filled with gently steaming water that smelled tropical and heavenly. The room and the open-air shower beyond it were filled with candles and Ben had turned on the rain fixture so there was the sound of a waterfall spattering against the floor and plants as well, bringing the scent of green jungle with it.

“I thought we’d have a nice … soak, together,” Ben said, and started undressing him.

Khalil let him peel off his shirt, then leaned in and kissed him while Ben’s nimble fingers popped his fly and unzipped him. He broke the kiss to push Khalil’s khaki shorts and boxers down off his hips and onto the floor, to be stepped out of and then tossed on a nearby bench with his shirt, where Ben’s clothes already were. Khalil returned the favor by whipping the towel from Ben’s waist, finding a half-erect cock beneath it. Khalil reached for him to urge it along.

But it was Ben who cupped and kneaded him, nudging his hands aside with a soft, “wait.” Ben’s hand glided up and down his shaft, twisting across the head until it started to fill and rise, foreskin rolling back. Then he stepped back to admire the result. Seeming satisfied, he ushered Khalil to the steaming tub and helped him in. He waited until Khalil was settled, then climbed in himself, facing Khalil and straddling him.

Khalil lay back against the warm curved stone of the tub and half closed his eyes. The water was just the right temperature and a little oily with something that smelled like coconut and perhaps almond. Ben leaned forward and ran his now-slippery hands over Khalil’s chest and shoulders and down his arms where they rested on the rim. The touch was soothing and gentle without being ticklish, comforting rather than arousing—until Ben leaned forward and kissed him, their cocks rubbing together. Khalil opened his mouth with a sigh and Ben pushed inside, mapping every part of his mouth as though memorizing every texture and taste. From there, he moved down Khalil’s neck, nibbling gently and licking the hollow between his collarbones. He lavished attention on Khalil’s nipples, mouthing and biting them to hard nubs and making Khalil squirm beneath him, the twinge in his side making him wince and flinch and reminding him not to get too frisky.

Ben gave him such a tender look that it took his breath. “If I do something that hurts, tell me. That’s the last thing I want. You’ve been hurt enough, more than enough, for a lifetime. Just let me make you feel good.” He ran his palms carefully over Khalil’s chest where the cuts were still pink but fading. “Is this too sensitive to touch? I know it’ll just tickle if it’s too light. Can I touch you here?”

Khalil nodded “Just not where the big sliver went in. That’s pretty tender yet. Most of the rest is just itchy. I think we’d probably better not get up to anything that takes much use of my abdominals right now, though.”

“That’s what I thought,” Ben affirmed and went back to caressing him, slowly working his way down beneath the water and down Khalil’s body. His hands went everywhere, touched everything, and again, the tenderness and care felt like a benediction. Ben traced each of his fresh cuts and the outlines of old bruises with careful fingers and then caressed him with long, slow strokes, avoiding only what was now a raised and puckered line in his side. He stroked down the lines joining Khalil’s hips and long legs and curved inward to part his thighs and draw his knees up so he could slide down a bit more in the tub. Ben tucked his feet in between Khalil’s legs and then slid his hands under Khalil’s ass and lifted him a little, enough to slide his own legs and hips beneath, so Khalil was resting on his lap, Ben’s hard cock nestled between his buttocks. Suddenly Khalil wanted him inside, wanted to be filled. Ben must have seen that need in his face and reached out to touch his cheek, brushing it with his knuckles.

“Shhhhh,” he murmured. “We’ll get to that. Just relax.” And he went back to the long soothing strokes of his hands, as though he were gentling a large animal. Khalil closed his eyes and let himself sink into the love and desire in that caress, knowing it was deeper than he’d imagined or let himself believe, and finally beginning to trust his luck at having found another person who cared for him this much.

At some point, Ben let some of the cooling water out and added more hot water, and reached over the side to grab a small bottle. He drizzled some of the contents into his palm and coated his fingers with it. It smelled like the same bath oil they were soaking in. He pulled Khalil a little higher on his lap, tilting his pelvis up and stroking a finger over the rim of his opening and pushing slowly inside.

Khalil shuddered and clutched at Ben’s legs, groaning when Ben found his prostate and brushed over that. “I like that sound,” Ben said, and did it again with the same result. He wanted to stroke himself but suspected Ben would move his hands away. “Please, I want you in me,” he said. “Please, Ben.”

“All right, we’ll make that happen,” he agreed, and began to work Khalil open, first with one finger and then sliding in a second to scissor him open. “Just relax, love. We’ve got all night.”

“I doubt I’ll last that long,” Khalil moaned. “Christ and Allah that feels good. I’ve missed this so much. Missed you inside me.”

Ben worked him a little more at the same pace, taking his time while Khalil was growing increasingly desperate, moving with him. And then between one breath and the next, Ben’s fingers were gone and the head of Ben’s cock was pressing against him, opening him slowly, pushing past the loosened muscles, sliding in like it belonged there, like coming home. Khalil gripped the sides of the tub so tightly his knuckles were a stark white, and breathed out slowly to keep himself from coming right then.

Ben ran his hands up and down Khalil’s clenched thighs, soothing the tension out of him and not moving otherwise, just letting Khalil get used to his presence inside. “Relax,” he murmured. “Lean back and let me do the work. No straining your abdominals, remember?”

Khalil whimpered a little but did as he was told, and when he was settled, Ben began to move in him, gently rocking his hips enough to caress Khalil’s prostate every fourth or fifth thrust, just enough to keep him anticipating it. Eventually, he grew almost hypnotized by the rhythm and the pleasure of feeling Ben inside him and the edge on his need to come was blunted as he concentrated on being filled and comforted. He settled back into the curve of the tub, rocked and cradled in the heat and soft water and Ben’s body, starting to lose the sense of where he ended and Ben began.

Ben started to stroke him then, not fast enough or hard enough or tight enough to ramp anything up, but just as another part of the comfort being wrapped around him. He truly felt hypnotized then, immobile, relaxed, incapable of thought—a little like he’d felt immediately after the concussion, but without the pain and angst. He felt, truthfully, more than a little stoned. He let himself float in the sensation as Ben fucked him slowly and worked his cock.

“Is that good?” Ben’s voice was husky and a little strained and Khalil realized what an effort this must be for someone with the libido of a 21-year-old. That he hadn’t come himself yet was a little miraculous.

“More than good,” Khalil murmured, eyes slitted, watching Ben watching him. “But I might drown in here if I get any more relaxed. Finish it, Ben, and we’ll go to bed for more.”

He smiled as his hot young lover grinned wolfishly and sped up his efforts. It wasn’t going to be the hard fucking Khalil liked, but it was still a wonderful thing and vigorous enough that water sloshed over the top of the tub as Ben pushed into him in time with his hand work. It was the final rub of a calloused thumb over the head of his cock that set Khalil off and made him buck, sending a wave over the side as another wave of sheet lightning went through his body and limbs, shaking him to his core as he erupted into their bathwater. Ben shouted as Khalil clamped around him and made one last hard thrust into him, shuddering, back arching, eyes closed and mouth wide open in the electric moment he’d built for them.

They sagged against their respective ends of the stone tub, breathing hard. Ben softened and slipped from him, and even when he was empty again, he felt a thread of something between them that hadn’t been there before, a connection he’d never felt with anyone else, not even Michael. At the other end of the tub, Ben’s eyes slitted open and his mouth turned upward in a smile as his hands caressed Khalil’s legs and Khalil returned it. There was no need to say how amazing that had been; it was clear, he knew, in his own expression, and mirrored in Ben’s, who pulled him upright and into an embrace. They sat like that until the water started to cool again, then got out and rinsed off in the rain shower as the tub drained behind them.

Ben dried him off gently and Khalil returned the favor and they both headed off to their turned-down bed. Khalil got in first and held his arms out for Ben, who crawled in and snuggled close and it wasn’t long before sleep claimed both of them.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A happy interlude of recovery and return

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After the week we've had, I thought we needed a no drama chapter, just some happy stuff. Well a teeny bit of drama.

Khalil made good on his promises, and he and Ben spent the next six weeks loafing, fucking, soaking in the pool, looking at art, eating well, and traveling around southern California sightseeing and looking at property in a “just window shopping” way. They found a couple of new floor lamps they both liked to replace the shattered Tiffanies, and Ben found some beautiful bangles for Manizha. Khalil wasn’t sure which of them enjoyed the art crawl more, he or Ben, and they worked their way down the coast’s galleries to the Getty and LA’s collection of museums as well, Ben reveling in each new piece he’d only seen in pictures and the ones that were new discoveries. It gave Khalil a whole new perspective on old friends and on pieces he’d never seen before either.

Gingerly, Khalil went back to his now-scratched and somewhat more battered laptop a week into their stay, and took care of the business of contacting his lawyer and accountant to get the insurance payouts for the damages started, and wrote Manizha a short note. He checked in with Mina and Marc, who had heard nothing about the investigation yet. Ben tried to do the same for his truck and found his insurance company balking at a payout for bomb destruction, even though he’d gotten the comprehensive coverage.

“Let’s see, you’ll cover a missile hit but not a bomb? How does that work? Or does this fall under vandalism?” Ben’s voice was sweetness and light although his expression said otherwise and Khalil stopped on his way to the pool to shamelessly listen in. “Uh huh, sure, I’ll get that report from the FBI and ATF to you as soon as they release it. No, this wasn’t handled by the local police, though the Sheriff was there as a courtesy. In the meanwhile, why don’t you send your assessor out to look at it? No, the original vehicle that blew up was hauled away by the ATF as evidence, what was left of it. You’ll find a big crater in our driveway though, and they’ll have to do some digging in what’s left of the garage to find my truck. And if you could tell me when your assessor is coming so I can let the neighbors watching our house know? I’m sure they don’t want the cops pulling up on them with guns out. That’s just a bad way to start or end your day.”

Khalil was laughing silently by the time Ben clicked off his phone and mimed throwing it across the room.

“That was death by a thousand cuts,” Khalil said. “Well done.”

“Yeah, but who died?” Ben growled. “What an asshole!”

“This is why I let the lawyer do this kind of thing. It’s seriously aggravating and brings out all my combat instincts.”

“You can say that again. Hang on, I’ll come dunk my head with you after that, before it explodes like my father’s truck.”

A month after the bombing, Khalil started to feel well enough to exercise again, and began running on the beach in the mornings, which felt like heaven. It was good to start moving again and stretching himself, and building back some muscle tone and stamina. Ben joined him for a while, but ultimately Khalil’s long legs were too much to keep up with. “I see why you and Marc run together. You’re the only two who can pace each other,” he remarked, one morning, panting at the end of their run that Khalil wasn’t even breathing hard at. Largely uninterested in the other sports activities offered at the resort, Ben started to swim laps in the resort’s huge pool and found he enjoyed it, if not so much the audience that gathered to watch if he did it in the evenings. Khalil had settled back into his early morning schedule, so Ben joined him and did his laps while Khalil ran. Khalil thought Ben would never be a morning person, but he’d learned to fake it, with sufficient amounts of coffee, at least for now.

By the time they were checking out, they were glad of it, both eager and anxious to get back to the house and start the repairs. Khalil was also happy that the staff seemed sorry to see them go. Their butler, in fact, came down personally to see them into their cab to the airport. “It’s really been a pleasure, Mr. Cahill, Mr. Kenner. The staff and I from the villa wanted to wish you a pleasant flight home and we hope you’ll be back to stay with us again soon.”

They shook hands and Ben said, “Thanks so much, all of you, for taking such good care of us, and give our regards to everyone.”

“I will indeed, Mr. Kenner. Pleasant journey.”

“Well,” Ben said with a grin, when they were on the freeway, “the Cahill Charm for the win.”

“Oh, they liked you too, boyo,” Khalil countered with his own smirk. “I saw the housekeepers fussing over you. You’ve got your own charm. And I think our butler had a thing for you.”

Khalil, as usual, dozed most of the way home on the plane and Ben read and looked out the window, still not bored with the view, even at night. They’d taken a redeye home, and made their connections at LAX and at the big downstate airport easily. Spring was already in the air there, but as they flew north, there were more patches of snow on the ground and quite a lot still in piles around the runway and terminal of the little local airport, where Marc had said he’d meet them.

It was not just Marc who’d come along, but Adi as well, and they fell into the warm embraces of their friends gladly.

“You two look so tan! I hate you!” Adi teased.

“Ben’s lost that dead fishbelly look,” Marc agreed and Ben made a face at him. “And you, Colonel, look like you did in Afghanistan, except less tense and softer around the middle.”

“I can always count on you to make me feel better about myself,” Khalil said, slapping Marc on the back and squeezing his shoulder until Marc winced.

“Jesus, just tell me to go fuck myself next time, Kal,” he said working his shoulder.

“Now who’s the soft one, _Sheriff?”_

“Gosh it’s good to be home!” Ben said brightly, giving the two of them Looks.

Adi rolled her eyes and laughed. “Welcome back, guys. We really missed you. No, really. Let’s go get some breakfast.”

They collected their luggage, Marc complaining about how much of it and how heavy it was, and were whisked off to a nearby diner for the Lumberjack Special, then started off toward home again.

“Are you staying with us?” Adi asked, turning in her seat next to Marc. “You know you’re welcome to.”

Khalil looked over at Ben, who said, “I’d like to see how the house looks after the cleaners Khalil hired went through it. The upstairs is fine, and the windows are in, so we should be okay there. And I’d like to see Buddy.” _And sleep in my own bed_ was the subtext Khalil heard.

“Where’s the tank? Still at your house?” Khalil added.

“Taking up space in our driveway,” Marc confirmed, with a quick glance in the rearview. Adi smacked his arm.

“Well by all means, let us not inconvenience you any longer,” Khalil drawled. “What have you heard about the investigation? I know you didn’t want to email or phone about it.”

“Not much,” Marc admitted. “The Feds, both sets of them, are being pretty closed-mouth about it. But they were all over Adam’s various storage facilities and his house, which you can get back into, by the way. Not sure what they found or what they took away, as I was not present at those searches.” Marc sounded pissed about that. “When I politely inquire so I can better protect the people in my jurisdiction, they just tell me the investigation is ongoing and they’ll keep me informed, like I’m some fucking civilian. You got any contacts whose arms we can twist?”

“I don’t think the folks I know at DOD are going to be much help with this. At least those assholes at Homeland Insecurity aren’t in on this though.”

“I think it’s mostly ATF now, thanks to the firearms and bomb materials and such,” Marc added.

“So we still have no threat assessment,” Khalil frowned. “Unacceptable. We know this is more than just Adam off his nut, but is it the militia guys or what? And are Ben and I bait?”

“Yeah, I am really not happy about that,” Marc growled.

“Uh oh,” Adi said, looking at Khalil, “you’re getting that _when’s the next plane to Washington_ look.”

“The troops used to call that the _don’t make me come over there_ look,” Marc stage whispered to Ben, who laughed.

“Wait, what do you mean ‘bait’?” he said, suddenly realizing what Khalil had said.

“If they’ve got a bigger operation in motion,” Marc explained, “they’re going to let you sit there and tempt whoever they’re hunting into action again. They might have somebody inside feeding them intel and are just waiting to catch the group in the act.”

“Are you shitting me?” Ben demanded.

“I don’t know that’s what’s going on, but they’re not usually this close with an investigation progress, unless there’s somebody undercover in place and an operation in motion.”

“Well, that’s just fucking fantastic,” Ben muttered. “Is it too late to go back to California?”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Khalil said, and it was all he could not to snarl it. “But that’s not a choice you have to make, Ben. If you feel safer in California—”

“What? No! You’re staying, I’m staying. Don’t be an asshole,” Ben snapped, as fractious as he was because they were both worried and afraid.

“He can’t help it,” Marc said. “He’s always been that way.”

“Fuck these people, fuck all of them,” Khalil growled, “ATF and whoever they’re hunting. I want a piece of this.”

“Chill out, Colonel. You’re retired, and this ain’t Afghanistan, or Syria, or wherever,” Marc said sharply. “We don’t know if you’re bait or not, but I’m sure as hell going to find out. Now that you’re back, it’s a little different. We’ll sic Mina on them too. Don’t make me put your ass in protective custody.”

Their eyes met in the mirror, and in that moment, Khalil felt the most powerless he’d ever felt. He knew Marc was right, knew this was not his fight, knew that the rule of law prevailed everywhere or nowhere—and then you were a broken, failed state.

He didn’t have to like it.

So he gave Marc that wordless nod that spoke volumes between them and looked away. He could feel Marc relax even from the back seat. But he was going back to the range again soon. And for the first time since retiring, he wanted a rifle.

The first surprise of the day was in the Winstons’ driveway. The SUV they pulled up beside made Khalil do a double take.

“Wait, is that—is that the _tank?”_ Ben said incredulously, staring.

Khalil got out and walked around Marc’s SUV to his own, which sat gleaming and unblemished in the drive: dents smoothed out, scratches gone, detailing touched up, window decals replaced.

“Did you do this?” he asked Marc, sounding almost as unbelieving as Ben.

“Adi made me,” Marc replied. “It was a fucking eyesore.”

“You liar,” she responded and punched his arm. “God forbid anybody should see you being a nice person.”

“I can’t be nice, I’m the sheriff. And the guy at the garage said it was a bitch getting those dents out with the armor in there. That thing really is built like a tank.”

Meanwhile, Khalil was running his hand over the shiny paint job and the barbed wire detailing on the driver’s side. The vehicle looked better than it had when he’d bought it.

“Marc, you didn’t have to do this. I was going to fix this when we got back.”

Before Marc could reply with something snarky, Adi said, “Kal, you have to let people who care about you do nice things for you too, and not always be the giver. Okay? Don’t hog all the fun.”

“And this wasn’t just us,” Marc added. “It was more of a community effort. It pissed a lot of people off when they heard what happened. People here like you and Ben, Kal. Christ, you asshole, you put my kids through college. This didn’t feel like much to do in return. And before you say I didn’t have to return that, I know. That’s not what this is.”

Khalil fought hard not to tear up, mostly because Marc would never let him live it down. “Thank you, you asshole. Thanks, Adi.” He gave her a warm hug and smacked Marc on the back of the head. “Who else should I thank for this?”

“The guy who did your detailing. The touch up was a freebie. The bodyshop guy just charged us for getting the dings out and sanding it down; he threw in the paint job. Oh, and he left one ding. Look at the windshield frame on the driver’s side.”

“Aw, look, Ben. They left in the spot where you took a potshot at me the day we met.” He ruffled Ben’s hair and watched him turn crimson. “Even the paint is still chipped.”

“Yeah, I saw that. I was kinda hoping that one would disappear,” Ben muttered.

“I’m a little sentimental about that one, so I’m glad it didn’t.” He rubbed the tip of one of Ben’s red ears between his thumb and finger until Ben swatted at him.

They moved their suitcases into the tank’s stowage, added the few things they’d left behind at Marc and Adi’s, and after hugs, headed home. The tank felt like it had had a tune-up as well as bodywork, driving more smoothly than it had before.

“Man, I dread seeing this again, but I really want to be home again, too,” Ben observed.

“Same here,” Khalil agreed. “I don’t think I said this to you before, but this really made me realize how much I love this house and what we’re making it into. I don’t know how you feel about it, but I’ve grown really attached to it.”

Ben was quiet for a little while, watching the familiar scenery go by as they drove through town. A few people who recognized them waved or honked, and they waved back, Khalil surprised at how warm that made him feel.

“I’m glad you love it,” Ben said, finally. “It was never a happy place for me, not until you bought it and gutted it and opened it up, and that seemed to chase out a lot of the bad juju or aura or whatever you call it. And then we started to build new memories into it and it started to feel like I had a real home for the first time. Then this shit happened and, you know, it made me fucking furious because it hurt something we’d made together. So yeah, I’m pretty damn fond of this house now. Because you’re there. You made it a real home.”

Khalil reached over and caressed his cheek and then his hair and Ben smiled at him. “I can’t wait to see Buddy again too. If he remembers us.”

“I hope he’s not scared of the house now,” Ben added.

Hey, did the assessor ever show up to look at your truck?” Khalil asked as they turned onto their road.

“Yeah, he took one look at the garage and just wrote ‘totaled.’ Surprise!”

Khalil smiled grimly. “Right. There’s a shock. Let me know if you need some help at the bank again.”

“Thank you, sir. I think I can handle it this time.”

Khalil nodded and turned down their drive, which somebody—probably Tom and his sons, from the half melted shovel marks—had kept clear for them. The piles of snow on either side were sodden and collapsing in on themselves, but still considerable. When they rounded the curve, most of the yard itself was clear of snow and filled with snowdrops and crocuses, which made both of them smile. And Tom Nikkari was standing on the steps of their porch with Buddy, who was leashed but leaping around frantically, his tail wagging so hard that it was a blur.

“Welcome home, neighbors!” Tom said. “Good to see you again. Should I release the hound?”

“I think you’d better before he pulls you off the porch or strangles himself,” Ben said, laughing.

“Brace yourselves!” Tom said and unclipped the leash.

Buddy became a guided missile headed straight for the two of them, but couldn’t decide which one to tackle first and ended up going right between them into the yard, then circling back around them both, barking and wagging his entire back end. He finally settled on Khalil and literally leaped into his arms, so he found himself hefting 45 pounds of dog who was licking his face and whining and barking and wriggling. Ben was laughing so hard he was crying and even Tom seemed amused.

“He really missed you two, even though he loves playing with the kids. We had to walk over here every day to show him you weren’t home yet or he’d whine at the door all night. Then Kit wound him up this morning saying ‘guess who’s coming home, Buddy?’ and left me to bring him over when Adi called to say you were on your way. Nearly pulled my arm off.”

Buddy wriggled out of Khalil’s arms and went straight for Ben, who knelt down and was instantly knocked on his ass and pounced on for a good face washing. They rolled in the crocuses and snowdrops for a bit before Ben got up, covered in mud, and chased him around the yard, both of them laughing.

“Thanks so much for taking care of him,” Khalil said, wiping his face with his handkerchief and still laughing himself. “I hope he wasn’t too much trouble and that we left you enough money for chow. He eats like a horse.”

“We loved having him, Kal, the kids especially, and that was more than enough, even for him.”

“Just hang onto it then. We might have to ask you to look after him again some time.”

“Happy to,” Tom confirmed. “Thanks for letting us know when the insurance people were coming out, too. That saved a lot of nervous agita. There were a few press people by early on, but I just referred them to Marc. Otherwise it’s been pretty quiet. We turned the water back on for you yesterday and flipped all the right switches, so you should be good to go. One thing I want to show you, though,” he said, turning up the stairs. Khalil and Ben followed with Buddy, Ben stripping off his now mud-encrusted coat to leave on the porch, which had been swept clean in their absence. Tom stepped aside and let Khalil unlock the battered door and step inside to flip the lights on.

And stop dead in the doorway with Ben crowding behind him and finally giving him a gentle push out of the way, only to stop dead himself, Buddy settling at his side and looking up at him expectantly.

“Tom, what the hell,” Khalil said in a shocked voice.

“Did you do this?” Ben added.

“My family and some of your neighbors,” Tom admitted with a sort of abashed smile. “They don’t want me to tell you who.”

Inside, the great room looked far more intact than it had when they’d left, even though the furniture still showed signs of the blast. Everything broken had been cleared away, the carpets cleaned, lightbulbs replaced, the undamaged pots hung back in the kitchen rack, cupboard doors sanded and refinished, cracked panes replaced in the French doors. And most of all, the floors had been sanded and refinished, and the walls replastered, skim-coated, and repainted. All that was left to do was to replace or repair the furniture, lamps, and art, and whatever small kitchen appliances hadn’t survived.

“Tom—this is, this is really above and beyond,” Khalil said, genuinely touched to his core. This was something new and deeply heartwarming. “We really can’t thank you—all of you—enough. I can’t even really say how this makes me feel. Thank you. Thank you so much.”

“No,” Ben agreed, “we can’t. This is just—wow, I don’t even know what to say except thank you.”

“Well,” Tom began, still looking a bit abashed, “you two have been really good neighbors and we all felt that this shouldn’t happen to anybody. And we all felt a little responsible because the assholes,” Tom spat the word and it wasn’t one he said often, “who did this to you were people who live here too. We wanted you to know that we’re going to stop tolerating that kind of bullshit, and to make some amends for letting it get to this point.”

“I appreciate that,” Khalil said. “And I really can’t thank you enough, Tom, you and the rest of the folks who did this.”

“Same here,” Ben agreed. “Especially since my old man was a big part of that problem.”

“Nobody thinks of you or your mom that way, Ben, and a lot of us know now that your dad was struggling with mental illness so that puts a bit of a different spin on it too. But Jeff and his militia? We’re done with them. They’re not welcome here anymore. A number of businesses in town have stopped serving them, after this happened. And some of the ones who sympathize with them have lost customers. Now, I’ll let you two get settled in again, but if there’s anything else you need help with, just ask. Welcome home. Buddy’s not the only one glad to see you again,” he finished, shaking hands with both of them and waving as he left.

“Wow,” Ben said, dropping onto his usual barstool when Tom had gone. “I did not see any of this coming. Did you?”

“Nope,” Khalil agreed. “But you have to remember this is the first time in decades I’ve been in one place long enough to be part of any community that I wasn’t occupying,” he said a little ironically.

“There’s that,” Ben agreed with a laugh. “This doesn’t leave us much to do, does it, besides get the furniture replaced or refinished, at least in here.”

“And I’m half inclined to leave some of it, depending on how bad the damage is. The countertops have gotten that well-used look I was hoping for, and the stove and refrigerator are only a little dinged and scratched. What do you think?”

“Let me live with it for a while. But as long as it doesn’t affect how they run, I’m inclined to agree. I take it the Breville didn’t survive, since it’s not here.”

Khalil opened the cupboards, looking for it, in case someone had stowed it away, but it was nowhere to be found. “No, that’s a priority for today, along with some groceries. We can start an inventory for the insurance company tomorrow. They’ve waited two months already; another day of hanging onto their money won’t bother them. The assessor’s already done a walk-through anyway.”

Buddy was still prancing around them grinning and wagging as they brought in the luggage and took it upstairs to unpack later and sat down to make a grocery and appliance list. It felt like his first day in the house again and when Khalil counted back, he realized they were only a week or so off that anniversary. When he pointed that out to Ben, he got a sour look back. “Let’s not make a habit of this, okay? I can think of way better ways to celebrate that particular anniversary.”

“Agreed. It’s just a little funny though.”

“A little,” Ben smiled. “But now we’ve got a doggie to take with us when we go shopping, don’t we, Buddy? Who’s a good doggie? Who’s a good boy?” Buddy went into ecstasies of good doggieness at Ben’s feet, rolling over and barking and jumping until Khalil said, “Buddy, sit” in his doggie command voice. Even then, his tail was making a clean-ish sweep of the mud flaking off him onto the floor. Ben took him out on the porch to brush him off, along with his coat from their roll in the mud, then opened the tailgate and tossed Buddy’s travel blanket in the back of the tank and let him jump in.

They were back in a couple of hours with bags of groceries, a big bag of chow and some treats and new toys for Buddy, a couple of replacement small appliances, and most important, a new Breville and some fresh coffee from the roaster.

Groceries stowed, Khalil made the first ceremonial cups of their return, and he and Ben sat at the bar enjoying them in companionable silence. Buddy lay at the end of the bar, gnawing a new chew toy happily. Ben sighed happily and reached over to run his hand up and down Khalil’s back.

“It’s really good to be home,” he said.

“It is, isn’t it?” Khalil agreed.

“Even after the rollercoaster the last year has been?” Ben asked. “I mean, I’m betting this is sure not what you expected when you decided to retire here.”

“No, but life is never what you expect, thank Christ and Allah. I sure didn’t expect to fall in love again, this time with a handsome younger man who would take me with all my foibles and stick around through this bullshit, either. And I didn’t expect to find a, a _community_ here, or a different kind of home than I’ve ever had. It’s been a year of surprises, and not all of them bad. Not by a long shot.”

“Yeah, I couldn’t have imagined this either,” Ben said. “When you offered me a job instead of having Marc arrest me, I was pretty sure you were just fucking with me, that this was some kind of trick and I’d end up in jail or in the psych ward or something. And I didn’t know what the hell to think when you actually moved in and let me stay. I sure as hell did not expect to fall in love with some old hippie like you. Especially not a rich old half-hippie army dude.”

Khalil didn’t even bother to protest, just let his mouth quirk up in a lopsided smile and caressed Ben’s head. “I think I got the better half of the bargain,” he said, leaning over to kiss Ben.

“Nope,” Ben murmured against his mouth, and then opened to let him in. He tasted of doctored coffee and himself, a flavor Khalil savored above all others. “No, sir, you did not. I think we might have come out pretty even there.”


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's like Groundhog Day, but with guns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Khalil and I have had enough of these guys. We're both putting on our "Make Racists Afraid Again" hats. And Khalil, at least, knows how to play that self-defense game way better than I do.

Khalil was still awake when Ben came to bed that early that night, tired from their flight.

“How come you’re still awake?” he asked, letting Khalil wrap him in his arms and helping him tangle their legs.

“Thinking, I guess, and the time change,” Khalil responded, and nuzzled his temple. “I should stop sleeping on long flights like that, but it’s an old habit.”

“As long as it’s not the concussion.”

“No, I don’t think so. Just thinking about everything I have to do yet.”

“We. We have to do. Two responsible adults here,” Ben said, frowning.

Khalil kissed his forehead. “Yes, there are. Thank you for reminding me. I’m still not used to that. Even when I was with Michael, we never lived together, so this sharing the load business is very new. And I would be in much deeper over my head right now without you.”

Ben started to reply and then yawned and burrowed into Khalil’s arms. “Sorry, I’m really beat. Can we talk in the morning? After fuel?”

Khalil kissed his forehead again. “Of course, love. Go to sleep.” And with Ben in his arms, it wasn’t long before he did too.

So Ben found him where he usually did come morning: at the bar with coffee and his laptop and a pad of paper already half covered with things to do. Khalil watched as Ben, still not awake and operating on an unerring autopilot, bee-lined for the Breville for a quick shot of espresso, and then to the coffeemaker for a large cup of “fuel” doctored with cream and sugar. Still answering emails, he enjoyed the sensation of normalcy that had returned so quickly, but that he knew was probably fleeting until their current situation was taken care of. But for now, sitting at the bar in his slightly more worn kitchen with coffee and his laptop in front of him, Ben at the opposite end, tousled and a little bleary, Buddy between them gnawing on a chew toy, had become his definition of “home.”

True to form, Ben finally spoke halfway through his mug, only to affirm Khalil’s thoughts. “This is nice, isn’t it? You, me, quiet morning, great coffee, thoughts of breakfast, Buddy crunching something.”

“It’s fucking fantastic,” Khalil affirmed fervently. “Nothing better than this and your own bed at night.”

“Especially with someone you love in it,” Ben added warmly. “So what’s on the agenda today, sir?”

“List of items for the insurance, the first of those being, of course, the garage. Are there tools of yours in there that I should add?”

“Off the top of my head, uh, no. Oh wait, possibly my chainsaw; I’ll need a new one before we tackle the garage. The Feds took off with a lot and the rest worth worrying about were in my toolbox on the truck, so my insurance will take care of those, if necessary. That’s the first thing I want to do today, too: have a look at the garage and see what I can dig out before I call in the backhoe and tow truck. Can you order us a skip? I think we’ll need a 20 yard. Not sure how much of the lumber is salvageable. Maybe that one wall that the tank was holding up, but not much more.”

“I can help with that too,” Khalil said. “Let’s do that together before I order us a skip. I’d like to get the gun safe dug out before the backhoe goes in too, if we can.”

“Good idea,” Ben agreed. “Okay, I’ll run to the hardware store for the chainsaw, and then we’ll get started on the garage after breakfast. What else?”

“You said there were security system connections in the new windows?”

“I did. Are you thinking of putting one in?”

“I am,” Khalil affirmed grimly, “but not liking it. My instincts are to put up a razorwire perimeter fence but that’s downright unneighborly, as Robert Frost pointed out, and as Marc did, this ain’t Afghanistan. Question for you, though: how much use do the trails get in the summer?”

“Not much,” Ben replied. “They’re mostly game and hunting and winter recreational trails, too narrow for ATVs. You can just barely get a snowmobile down most of them when they’re not so overgrown. And too many mosquitoes in warm weather for anybody on foot. Not to mention our friends the black flies. Why?”

“Because I don’t want to be unneighborly or hurt anybody or the wildlife, but I’d like to temporarily block access to them on this end and I can’t think of how to do that.”

“Would you settle for having a warning of what’s coming down them?”

“That would help, yes. What do you have in mind?”

“Motion sensitive wildlife trail cam. I think some of them can stream to your phone or send alerts or something. Put it up high enough and it won’t get the raccoons and skunks and such, though you might get the occasional deer or bear.”

“I wondered if there was a civilian version of that, and if they come with night vision.”

“They do. I’ve watched footage from wildlife researchers studying nocturnal critters. Expensive, but I don’t imagine that’s an issue for you,” Ben said with a smile.

“Well, no. Just not something I like to spend money on. Maybe the security company will have some suggestions too.”

“Probably. Can’t hurt to do some research first though.”

“Agreed. And maybe after we’re done excavating the ruins of the garage, we can get the ripped-up screens removed so we can replace them soon. I called the hardware store and they’re ordering more for us.”

“Great. If we’re going to have to do that again, I want to put the screens in frames this time, so we can swap them out for winter storm windows and use the porch year round. Sound good?”

“It does. Get what you need for it and you can start showing me how to build things.”

“I may have to pick up a few more tools before we get into that, but we’ll see. How do pancakes sound? We bought buttermilk yesterday and I think we should carbo-load before we start tossing around chunks of the garage.”

They managed to dig the gun safe out by lunch, wielding crowbars, muscle, and Ben’s new chainsaw, which made Khalil feel a whole lot better. It was battered, but still intact and working. He and Ben wrestled it out of the wreckage and took it down to the basement where Khalil opened it. Ben took out his rifle to examine it for damage while Khalil did the same with his handgun. Both weapons seemed none the worse for wear, and Ben locked them away again, after Khalil had put new batteries in the lock mechanism. “We’ll strip them down and clean them tonight,” Ben said, and Khalil agreed.

While they were down there, they stacked three of the four mats together to take to the dojo. “We’ll keep one for workouts and the Nikkaris’ kids to crash on when the power goes out. They like camping down here,” Khalil said. “At least we won’t have to worry about them getting curious about the gun safe, with all the hunters in their house.”

“Nope,” Ben agreed. “They’ve all had that pounded into their heads from the time they could say ‘gun.’ Are you clearing this out for the pellet stove mechanism?”

Khalil nodded. “If we get to that this summer. For now, it’s going to have to be storage space for whatever we salvage from the garage or whatever we intend to put in it, too. Let’s see what we can get out of your truck this afternoon.”

Khalil made burgers for lunch then went back to work with Ben, dismantling the collapsed roof and wall that had buried Ben’s truck. Parts of the side-opening garage door, made of narrow cedar slats, had blown right into the truck, shattering the glass in the windows and spearing into the back wall while merely bouncing off and scratching the virtually impervious tank. Ben’s truck had been pushed right into the back wall and almost through it, the nose of the truck stopped only by the shattered windshield of the cab from going right through. Falling roof joists had dented and flatted the cab and the box frames. Ben took the chainsaw to them to get at his toolcrate in the box, finding the heavy plastic cracked almost through. It took a crowbar to get it open, but most of his tools seemed unharmed as he passed them to Khalil. He also found his two hardhats inside, and handed one to Khalil.

“Put that on, Colonel Concussion. We should have had these when we started this, but better late than never.”

“Sir, yes, sir,” Khalil agreed, adjusting it to fit and putting it on. Ben put his on as well and picked his way out of the back of the truck.

“Think that’s clear enough for a tow truck to pull it out?”

“Might want to cut it free of where it went through the back wall, but after that, yeah, should be.”

Ben nodded and fired up the chainsaw to cut away some wiggle room around the hood. “Anything else you want to get out of there? Or should we order the skip and call the backhoe guy? I should probably trim some of this into more bite size pieces for him”

Khalil shook his head. “Can’t think of anything else I had in there beside yard and garden tools, and the snowblower. I imagine it’s totaled too, since it was right beside your truck. What about you?”

“That’s it for me. Let’s go wash up and call it a day.”

The remainder of the week was full of more cleanup labor. There was some wait for supplies and equipment—rolls of screen material, lumber, cedar shakes, skip—and appointments with the backhoe owner, tow truck, and the folks to resurface the drive. Again. Meanwhile, Khalil was arranging for the reupholstering and refinishing of some of his furniture. His mother’s table had been seriously scratched, though the chairs less so, and the couch was a sad, woeful disaster on one end and along part of the back. Khalil found an antique furniture restorer downstate who agreed to come have a look at it and the table the following week, and called an art restorer in Chicago that he recommended. Ben showed him how to build a shipping crate for the paintings and they sent them both off with a shipper the restorer recommended. After the furniture restorer arrived and they’d negotiated the amount of work to be done—Khalil wanted to leave some reminders of the event in place, and the restorer agreed—he took both table and couch and the two arm chairs away. The intaglio tables had survived with only tiny scratches, and the coffee table with a few minor, character-building dents. The room they sat in, however, looked stripped and lonely. Their new torchieres, which arrived that week, only made it look more so.

The tow truck had a bit of a struggle pulling out Ben’s pickup, like extracting a recalcitrant tooth, and it required a flatbed for transport with the frame as flattened as it was. Ben patted it and bid it a sad farewell as the flatbed rolled down the drive with the wreckage. The skip arrived the day before the backhoe was due, and Ben and Khalil stripped off the torn screens from the porch and tossed them in, along with some of the damaged shakes from the siding. Ben spent some time with the chainsaw, reclaiming what he could from the garage and cutting up what he couldn’t. In the process, he unearthed the battered snowblower, which was indeed totaled. Some of the roof joists from the middle turned out to be okay; he and Khalil stacked them in the yard behind the garage footprint, along with the framing from the side wall the tank had propped up. The backhoe made short work of loading rest in the skip, but revealed a crack that had split the concrete slab in half and other chunks gone from the floor where Ben’s truck had been. Ben cussed up a blue streak at this discovery and resignedly had the backhoe operator tear it all up so they could start fresh, then do the same with the cratered asphalt in the drive, and backfill and grade as much of that as he could.

When that was done, they set to work on replacing the shakes on the front and side of the house. Khalil somehow felt a lot better when that was done, like the house was whole again, even without its garage or the screens on the porch.

“What now, boss?” Khalil asked as they got the last of the shakes nailed up. It had looked like a big job, but with two of them, turned out to be far quicker than he expected. Khalil was enjoying the physical labor and Ben’s not so subtle ogling that went with it, as he stripped off first jacket then flannel shirt.

“Now we build some screens, before black fly season starts, and I teach you how to use a miter box and the miter saw. Once we’ve got the measurements for these, we can order storm windows, but not until we’ve got a new garage to store them in. I do not want to drag those up and down the basement stairs.”

They set up what amounted to a mini production line and swapped jobs until Khalil felt doing all of it: cutting the framing lumber and screens to size, mitering the corners, routing the frames for the spline, mounting the screen material in the frames, installing the hardware to mount the screens, sealing the frames, and finally putting up the finished product themselves. The job was done in two days, and Khalil was getting new calluses, and was stupidly proud of himself. Ben was, too.

“But if you’re going to keep doing this,” Ben said, “you need to get yourself some safety equipment that fits you, not me: hardhat, work gloves, safety glasses, steel-toed boots. My old man was always insistent on that, at least; I’ll give him that. And a poor fit is as bad as nothing. Before we start on the garage, I want you properly outfitted.”

“Sir, yes, sir!” Khalil barked with a snappy salute that was only partly sarcastic. He wondered if he still had his custom leather work gloves from the service somewhere, or if he’d have to order new ones for his outsized mitts. The standard sizes never fit right, even the extra large.

Once the screens were up and the house siding repaired, they slowed down a little, and let the spring ground dry out before getting the garage footprint ready for a new slab and the drive ready for regrading and surfacing. And Khalil went gun shopping.

He’d been around guns and gun owners most of his life, but the only one he’d ever bought himself was his sidearm, after he retired, and it matched the one he’d been issued. So he went out to the range to talk to the owner and get some advice, and then to a couple of gun shops, of which there were many in their neck of the woods, but two in particular recommended by the range owner. The fact that he could buy long guns without a permit in this state disturbed him, but he finally came home with two: a Mossberg International Silver Reserve II double barrel shotgun with ejectors, and one that made Ben gawk: an FN Scar 17S automatic rifle with a laser scope. The ammo he brought home for the shotgun was interesting too: the usual birdshot pellets, but a box each of rock salt and pepper rounds.

“Holy fuck, Khalil! For a guy who doesn’t like guns, those are two doozies,” Ben gulped when he took them out of their cases.

Marc had come out to see the purchases too, and was checking out the 17S with not-quite envy.

“That’s yours when I’m done with it,” Khalil said grimly. “For the sheriff’s office or your personal use.”

“What the fuck would I use this for personally?” Marc growled. “Only asshole civilians and incompetent hunters—or people who’re hunting Texas-sized wild boar— want a gun like this. And that’s why I’d like it for the sheriff’s office. I understand why you got this, Kal, but I don’t like it.”

“That makes two of us, then,” Khalil agreed.

“Three,” Ben added. “That is one evil-looking piece.”

“You both want to come to the range with me? Ben, I think you should fire this thing, just to get the feel of it.”

“I’ll need a shower afterwards,” he muttered. “That thing squicks me.”

“Couldn’t agree more,” Khalil said, “and I’m not sorry to hear that.”

“Why’d you get the laser scope?” Ben said.

“Because I’m not as eagle-eyed as you are, boyo. I was never a sniper-quality shooter because I didn’t have to be with an automatic weapon. There’s also the intimidation factor of seeing a laser dot on your Kevlar that I like in this case. The people I bought this to deter aren’t going to know whether I have armor piercing shells or not, given my background.”

“And if you do, I know nothing about them,” Marc added, rolling his eyes innocently.

“I don’t, so you don’t have to worry,” Khalil said. “I wouldn’t compromise you like that. And I’d wager none of these fuckers knows what it feels like to get shot with a high-powered rifle even if it doesn’t pierce your Kevlar. I’m not averse to breaking a rib or two or bruising the hell out of them and knocking them on their asses.”

“Or blinding them with pepper, I see,” Marc added. “I approve of these shells, and the rocksalt.”

“The birdshot is a last resort,” Khalil confirmed, “though again, I’m not averse to hitting somebody in the ass with it as they’re running away. It’s a good object lesson to have to lie on a gurney having it picked out of your arse.”

“So, pepper, rocksalt, birdshot. One, two, three,” Ben said. “Got it.”

“That’s why you got the break-action: less likely to jam with the varied ammo,” Marc said approvingly.

Khalil nodded, looking unhappy. “I hate having to think tactically again. This is not how I envisioned retirement. I just want to go fly fishing with you.”

“That sounds a little whiny, Colonel,” Marc teased, but it was softened by a squeeze of his shoulder.

“It is a little whiny and I don’t give a fuck,” Khalil said. “These bastards are ruining my hard-earned R&R. That said, I hope the Feds take care of them before I have to, because that’s another load of PTSD neither Ben nor I need.”

“Well, I can’t say I’m sorry you’re prepared, either way,” Marc said. “I’ll come out to the range with you, too, though I’m not exactly happy about it. Do you want me in uniform or civvies, Colonel?”

“Uniform, I think,” Khalil said after a moment’s consideration. “But not necessarily on county time, if that’s an issue.”

Marc shrugged. “I can chalk it up to testing out new munitions for the department, which isn’t even a lie if you’re handing that thing over later. You tell me when, I’ll be there with bells on.”

“Now that, I would pay to see,” Ben quipped, though none of them thought it was funny.

Khalil booked the gun range for a private party the following Saturday, the party consisting of Marc and Adi and Ben and himself. “Because if you think I’m going to sit home and not participate in whatever you’ve got planned, Colonel, you’ve lost your marbles,” Adi said indignantly. She had brought along her own sidearm for some target practice as well, as had Marc, who was in civvies today, since they were alone. “I had enough of that behind-the-lines crap. I’ve literally got as much skin in this game as you and Marc.”

“Truthfully, what I’ve got planned is deterrence and defense more than anything, Adi,” Khalil admitted, “and maybe a little psyops. But I would never say no to your help, or presume it wasn’t just as useful as Marc’s. I hope you know that.”

Adi snorted and shook her finger at him in mock anger, then patted his arm.

The range owner was deeply interested in the 17S and politely asked if he could try it out some time. “Happy to let you check it out in private,” Khalil agreed, “but in public, I don’t hand off my weapons to anyone I haven’t personally vetted, if you catch my drift.”

“I do indeed, sir,” the range owner replied with a serious nod. “And I will back you up on that all the way.”

“Much appreciated,” Khalil said.

Of all of them, Ben’s initial run with the 17S was better than anyone’s, which wasn’t surprising given his practice with his own rifle. He’d brought it along to keep himself amused while everyone else was playing with the new toy and impressed Marc and Adi and the range owner, who asked if he could do that well with moving targets. “I hunt deer and rabbits and partridge and pheasants; I don’t miss,” he said. Khalil asked Adi to give Ben some handgun instruction and practice, since her piece would fit his hands better than his or Marc’s, and he wanted Ben to be able to handle his sidearm if necessary. Khalil, having not touched a rifle in several years, found himself disconcertingly rusty and was determined to get up to speed again before he came back out in public with the rifle. Adi said she practiced with Marc, but Khalil suspected she was just trying to make him feel better, when her score was so much better than his. Marc, uncharacteristically, declined to tease him. Frankly, he’d been a bit worried that firing anything resembling an assault weapon again would send him into a flashback, but it hadn’t, which was a testament to his work with Carlos and his group.

Khalil and the owner stayed after everyone else had gone home, Marc and Adi dropping Ben off on their way, until Khalil felt comfortable enough with the rifle and his ability to use it well to come back the following day when the range would be open to the public again. The range owner had handed it back to Khalil after a few very accurate shots with a look of distaste.

“That is a nasty piece of work,” he said. “I’m not fond of semi-automatic weapons in civilian hands,” he said, “and that one is one of the last things anybody who isn’t ex-military or law enforcement should be allowed to own.”

“Couldn’t agree more,” Khalil said. “I resent having to own one.”

“Listen,” the owner said, seeming a bit embarrassed, “I heard what happened to you and Ben. I’ve been teetering on the edge of booting the militia guys off the range, but I don’t think it would help. I feel like I can keep an eye on them here, and it’s a good place to gather intelligence, if you know what I mean.”

Khalil nodded, though his gut was sending mixed messages. Well, two could play that game. “I do. And I’d appreciate knowing anything you hear.”

“Understood, Colonel.”

Khalil went back to the range every day for a week straight, for a couple of hours a day, until the 17S was as much a familiar tool as his service weapon had been, and he could aim and fire and hit his target without much thought. Marc came out one weekend in uniform to make an official showing and brought the local police chief with him, expressing both interest and approval, and firing a few rounds in the presence of militia members. Meanwhile, he and Ben were practicing with the hay bales and paper targets in the back yard with the shotgun, again until they were equally comfortable with it. Ben had used his father’s shotgun for bird hunting, but still preferred a rifle, if he had to have a gun. And in this case, he was glad for it. They moved the gun safe upstairs again to the entry, and in the absence of kids in the house, left the weapons in it loaded. Khalil switched the lock setting to biometric for both his and Ben’s prints for quick access. It felt too much like being at war again for him to sleep well, even after the security system went in.

Khalil bought four of the night vision critter cams and he and Ben mounted them at the edges of the property on the main trails. The feed went to both Khalil’s laptop and to an alert on his phone. Despite his dislike for the necessity of them, he came to enjoy watching the parade of critters in the morning, including a curious raccoon who tried to eat one of the cameras. He woke one morning to find Ben and Quin had made faces in all of them late the night before and nearly sprayed coffee everywhere when they appeared on the screen, mugging.

“I see you had a visitor last night,” he said when Ben came down and had consumed enough coffee to be coherent.

“I see you forgot to turn the app on your phone on,” Ben riposted.

“Touché, sir,” Khalil replied, chagrined. “No excuses, sir. Except that I can’t fucking sleep because these are lively woods. You were right about that.”

“Yeah, there must be some way we can tweak this to teach it to ignore the little critters.”

“It’s less that than my own hyperalertness,” Khalil said. “That damn raccoon notwithstanding. It’s been a long time since I stood sentry or picket, and if this were ideal conditions, I’d have a rotating group of people to post while I got a good night’s sleep. Instead, I’ve got four cameras that are very literal and think that everything that moves deserves an alarm. I’m tempted to just put tripwires on them instead, and not be sorry about clotheslining anyone who comes down the trail onto our property.”

“Do it,” Ben said in a harsh tone that surprised Khalil. “This property has been posted with no trespassing signs for as long as I remember. We let people use the trails, but everybody knew not to come into the yard, barring the trail to the road the snowmobilers use. And it was enforced with a shotgun full of birdshot unless it was kids. Then it was just scary Adam Kenner yelling _get the fuck off my land, you little shits!_ You saw how respectful the snowmobilers were when we changed the route. People who appreciate using that route won’t be wandering onto the property accidentally. We all know the woods around here from hunting, so nobody’s going to get lost, either. Anybody else is up to something shitty and deserves what they get.”

“No kids on mountain bikes?”

“I’ve never seen any, but I’ll ask around if you want.”

“If you would, please.”

“Could you flag the tripwires with non-reflective orange strips for daylight ramblers? If there are people mountain-biking, nobody’s going to do it at night and that’s what we’re primarily worried about, right?”

“Another good idea,” Khalil agreed. “Though I’m a little reluctant to do that. If we can make the tripwire light enough though, they won’t know they’ve gone through it.”

With some experimenting, they got a system that seemed to work and still allowed Khalil to get a decent night’s sleep, though the perimeter was still not as secure as his military training demanded it should be. But it did its job and caught someone on what was clearly night-recon.

“Motherfucker,” Marc fumed, mouth in a tight line as Khalil showed him the vid of a figure in black moving through the woods in a cap, gaiter, and night-vision goggles, packing an AR-15. “That sonofabitch is not poaching. Not 100 yards from your house with an AR-15, he’s not.” They were sitting in Ben and Khalil’s kitchen on a Thursday morning, Marc in his sheriff’s uniform, cop car parked outside.

“Good thing he’s too dumb to know he’d hit the tripwire,” Ben said.

“Unless he doesn’t care. We’ll have to reset it, anyway,” Khalil said.

“He’s wearing enough body armor he might not have noticed,” Marc pointed out. “Didn’t you say it’s about chest-high? His rifle probably hit it first, the way he’s carrying it.”

“Yeah, who goes poaching in body armor?” Ben grumbled.

“How close did he get, do you know?” Marc asked.

“Somewhere between that tripwire at the outer edge of the property and the outside edge of the yard. The camera on the house would have caught him if he’d come into the yard. It’s motion-sensitive too. There weren’t any critters on it last night, and he’s probably why.”

“Did this wake you?” Marc said.

“Oh yeah,” Khalil said. “The alarm worked like a charm this time. I expected another buck, and got a horse’s ass instead.”

“Send me this file. I’m forwarding it to the Feds.”

Ben handed Marc a thumb drive. “We have copies in the cloud and on external drives in the safe, too, just in case.”

“What do you think the Feds’ response to this will be?” Khalil asked.

“ _Thanks! We’ll take care of it!_ That’s what their response has been so far to everything else including an attempted car bombing. I don’t have much hope that’s changing anytime soon. But I’ll let you know.” Marc paused, watching Khalil’s face. “You’re getting that Look. What are you plotting?”

“Confusion to our enemies,” Khalil said quietly.


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Khalil's first time being an observer and not a participant in this kind of operation, and he doesn't like it. It's Ben's first experience period, and he likes it even less. Especially when things go pear-shaped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly? Writing this was like squeezing a watermelon through a transom. Hoping it gets easier for all of us now. I've been staring at it too long to find any errors, so please alert me if you do. Thank you for your patience.

They reset the trip wire and checked all of them to make sure they were still working. Though there were no alerts that night, neither of them slept well. Fedex arrived the next morning with a box from a vendor who was all too familiar to Ben from one of his father’s End of Days Zombie Apocalypse manic episodes, though the contents were a bit different. Khalil had ordered a dozen flashbang “grenades” with pull-rings and safety spoons like the real thing, which Ben was surprised were legal, doorstop alarms for each of the doors, and enough pepper spray to leave a large canister by each downstairs window and door. Then they mounted a large strobe light bar onto the eaves of the house on each side, temporarily wired to a spare switch in the external floodlight panel by the front door.

“Are these flashbangs going to fuck with your PTSD?” Ben asked. “These aren’t much quieter than an M80.”

“Not sure,” Khalil said frankly. “I’ve done a lot of work since last year, and I think it might be different when we’re the ones making the noise and I’m expecting it. The shooting range hasn’t bothered me, so that’s a good sign.”

“Let’s hope so,” Ben muttered, “or this could go bad really fast.”

Khalil asked Ben to have the Post Office put his mail on vacation hold again, and did the same with his own, then drilled a small hole in the back of their mailbox and mounted another tiny cam in it, with the motion sensor activated.

“You think they’re going to stick a pipe bomb or something in it?” Ben asked.

“It wouldn’t surprise me, though it’s never a good idea to fuck with the U.S. Mail inspectors. People don’t realize how good they are, or how powerful the laws behind them are. Anyway, better safe than sorry. I’d rather not have our mail carrier, Jenny—or either of us—lose an arm if they do stick something in there.

“What about the tank, now just sitting out there in what’s left of our driveway?” Ben asked, still clearly pissed about the garage.

“I reactivated the old perimeter alarm on it, which shrieks like a banshee, but I’ve also got a mirror to scope under it before we get in, since—as you point out—the fuckers blew up our garage. Make sure you use it every time.

“Yo, Colonel, I don’t even know what I’m looking for,” Ben said, half laughing. “Not one of your troops, remember?”

Khalil pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “Sorry. No, you’re not. I’m back in combat head and not even doing that well, if I’m taking your capabilities for granted. I’ll show you what to look for. But you’ve been under this thing before, so basically you’re looking for anything that looks like it doesn’t belong: plates, wires, boxes where they shouldn’t be. And I don’t have to tell you not to touch anything.”

“Nope, you sure don’t.”

“But frankly, I think that window has closed. If it’s explosives this time, it’ll be something like a pipe bomb that’s pretty simple to build. Munitions people who know what they’re doing are harder to come by than you think. Marc said the Feds were fairly impressed with the bomb.”

“It packed a punch, that’s for sure. Bless that skunk,” Ben said fervently.

That made them both laugh, Ben with a little tinge of hysteria that he got under control pretty quickly. Khalil pulled him in for a tight hug and held him, Ben’s arms equally tight around his waist. “Almost over, boyo,” he murmured into Ben’s hair. “Then this stops being _Groundhog Day_ and we can start moving forward again.”

“That sounds good to me,” Ben said, muffled against Khalil’s shirt. They stood that way for a while, just comforting each other, Khalil with his nose in Ben’s hair, until Buddy came over to lean against them and lick their hands when they reached down to pet him.

Ben stepped back and sat down on one of the stools, Buddy sitting between his legs. “Speaking of groundhog day, the last time we did this, you drilled me seriously in preparation for it. Are we doing that again?”

Khalil sat down beside him and put a hand on his leg. “I don’t see how there’s any way to do that, boyo. Something like this is more a military campaign than a street fight and you’ve never even been through Basic, where you’d have been molded into an obedient team player and not the stubborn individual I love. The best I think we can do is to have me explain my logistics to you, so you know what I’m trying to accomplish.”

“I see this is mostly defense—the pepper spray, the lights, the flashbangs,” Ben said. “That’s what you mean by ‘confusion to our enemies,’ isn’t it?”

Khalil nodded. “Exactly. My goal is to scare them off and keep them out of the house—to make an assault as hard as possible. I’m assuming whoever might come up here has had at least some military training, though so often that’s not the case with these douchebags, Marc tells me. Or they have one or two guys in the group who have and they’re trying to discipline the undisciplined. That’s an advantage to us. It means they haven’t drilled in realistic combat conditions. At best, they’ve been LARPing in the woods with paintballs. A full scale attack on a site when the other side expects it is something different: loud, crazy, distracting, scary as hell. That PTSD doesn’t come out of a jaunt in the woods with a toy gun.”

“Here’s how it works if everything goes right: we’ll get an alert from one or more of the cams. Then we set off the silent house alarm if they haven’t already, and call 911 to get reinforcements if they manage to disable the alarm. I didn’t let the alarm company put up any signs because I don’t want anyone but us to know we’re wired, in hopes they won’t find it and disable it. Since we’re off-grid, mostly, it’s harder to find our electric lines, too, so that’s an advantage, as are the cell phones. They’re unlikely to have jammers.” 

“The aim, as I said, is to keep them as far from the house as possible, scare them off. We don’t want them getting in because it becomes a whole different kind of fight then. I’ll cover the south and back of the house where the French doors are, you keep an eye on the front and the north. I think they’ll come through the woods, not down the driveway, so I’ll deal with them first while you’re calling in the cavalry, just like last time, even if the alarm goes off.”

“The only decent access points are the front door, through the porch, and the French doors on the south where we’ve got steps, and maybe the side door from the garage, though I’m going to slide a bookcase in front of that for now; there’s still no steps there anyway. You flip on the strobes to fuck up their night vision—because I’m pretty sure this is going to happen at night, if it happens at all—and I’ll throw out a flashbang or two. The flashbangs will startle them and make it seem like there are more of us than there are and that’s always a nasty surprise. If they’re starting to get too close, the shotguns come out. Rock salt and birdshot. Torso shots if you can, but head shots if you have to. I don’t particularly care if one of these fuckers loses an eye or looks like a smallpox victim for the rest of his life. I don’t think you should, either. If they get up on the porch, bust out a window and let ‘em have it with your rifle. The door should hold them long enough to do that.”

“If they get in?”

“Do what you have to. If they’re inside, or look like they’re going to be, the threat is imminent. Shoot to kill.”

“And the S17?”

“Insurance. I’ll have the S17, and if they’re on the landing or coming in, they’re getting that. That’s too close for comfort. I’m already assuming they mean to kill us, but I’d prefer not to return the favor. I’ve done enough of that. But it’s self-defense and I value my life and your life far more than theirs, and they fucking started it. How you feel about it is your own business, Ben, but I’ll kill to defend you and myself.”

Ben shifted uncomfortably on the stool and looked away, scratching Buddy’s head. “I’ve been thinking about this, a lot, since I took a shot at my old man and thought I’d killed him. And since I realized that both you and Marc have killed people. Maybe Adi, too. Then when that bomb went off and I thought you were dead—I wasn’t just scared, I was angry as hell. I guess they’re two sides of the same coin. If there’d been someone to kill, I’d have done it gladly right then, and without much regret now.”

Khalil moved his hand to Ben’s shoulder and squeezed a little. “Understandable. And perceptive. One of my favorite authors says that anger is just fear in drag, and he’s not wrong. You had good reason to feel both. But don’t discount the regret. Guilt’s not much use, but regret can be, if you can learn something from it.”

Ben nodded. “I haven’t been around soldiers or law enforcement except for you all, but I’ve been a hunter and fisher since I could hold a gun or a fishing pole. We hunted and fished to eat, the same way predators kill to survive. Since I was old enough to understand what an ecosystem was, I understood that humans are part of it, as the apex predators in most cases. It’s our job to balance out prey populations where we upset them; better limited hunting than a too-large herd of deer stripping the trees and starving in the winter.” Ben looked at him then, mouth in a grim line, eyes flashing. “But that day I took a shot at my father, that was the day I decided not to be prey to another human, either. One of the first things I was taught about guns was you don’t pick up a gun unless you intend to use it, and if you intend to use it, that means killing something, quickly and cleanly. If I have to pick up my rifle when this happens, I’ll be taking headshots.”

Khalil pulled him in and kissed his forehead. “Here’s hoping the Feds do their job and it doesn’t come to this. I’d rather give all this shit to Marc for his department than to have to use it. Especially that fucking rifle.”

The “raid,” when it came, was almost an anticlimax. For one thing, they had forewarning of it, thanks to the Feds, who wanted to catch their suspects in the act. For another, they weren’t left on their own. Working with the Feds, Marc and Adi arrived for dinner with overnight bags full of Kevlar and weapons, and Marc with papers deputizing all three of them.

“Do I get a souvenir badge, at least?” Ben joked.

“You get a loaner Kevlar vest, is what you get,” Marc growled, more impervious to joking than usual. “Shut up and strap it on,” and he handed Ben and Khalil two vests with “Sheriff’s Dept.” lettered across them. “The last time this happened, somebody let you get a collapsed lung. There will be no injuries or casualties on my watch. At least not in this group. The Feds can look out for themselves. I’m deputizing you two and Adi mostly so you don’t wind up face down on the ground in cuffs for shooting anybody if you have to. And I want both of you largely out of this, upstairs.”

Khalil opened his mouth to protest and shut it again almost as quickly. He wasn’t a cop. He wasn’t anything but himself, and that was someone else other than a soldier or a security expert. No matter how many years he’d been doing this, he hadn’t come anywhere near an engagement like this in almost three years, since Michael had been killed, and he found he had little taste for it now. It was time to let other experts handle it, if for no other reason than to keep Ben out of it too, and perhaps keep the PTSD to a minimum for both of them.

“Yes, sir,” Khalil replied instead, catching Ben’s look of surprise. “Happy to leave this to the people who get paid for it. We’ll be up in Ben’s studio where the cover is better.”

Marc had also brought three more scatter guns and more rock salt shells. “We’ll be using these,” he said, “since the Feds will be out there too. You scared somebody downstate when they got wind of the S17 you’d purchased. I think that’s the main reason they let us in on this, and you can probably thank Mina for that; she’s been hounding them for weeks about keeping us in the loop so somebody doesn’t get hurt.”

Ben wasn’t the only one who looked relieved at that. “I’ll be happy to surrender that thing at the end of this escapade, and the rest of this shite too, except the party lights,” Khalil said.

“We’ll keep a can or two of the bear repellent too,” Ben added, giving Khalil a _trust me_ look.

Khalil nodded with an amused grin. He’d learned to trust Ben’s advice about the wildlife. “I’m keeping my sidearm though. And Ben’s rifle goes upstairs with us. The S17 can stay in the gunlocker, but I’ll leave it unlocked for the duration in case you or Adi want it. I want something lethal if we need it.”

“Fair enough,” Marc agreed.

“So who’s running the show? ATF or FBI?” Ben asked.

“FBI,” Marc replied. “ATF took over your dad’s case but the Feds have been following this crew for a long time. They’re part of a larger group that stretches down across the bridge as well as into the next state and they’re hoping to catch some of the leaders tonight. You sure twisted their tails, Kal, putting two of their boys in jail and digging up all those bomb-making supplies. Not to mention that skunk you sicced on their other bombmaker. This turned into a really bad-smelling vendetta awful quick.”

Adi and Ben made an obvious show of rolling their eyes and gagging at the atrocious puns, but Marc’s “humor” cut some of the tension, as he’d no doubt intended. Khalil had seen him do this before, prior to some shit show they were going into.

“See? Not as friendly as you think I am,” Khalil riposted with a wry grin, but he was troubled by that news too. He’d been the target of racist bullshit since at least 9/11, but not quite like this. The rumble in the parking lot of the dojo had been more typical, especially in the service. Though he understood on an intellectual level that his chosen country had a deeply racist and generally bigoted history it hadn’t yet resolved, this brought it home in a way none of his experiences in the service ever had. So much hate, he thought, and for what? On the other hand, he was fairly certain that none of Adam’s bomb making materials had been piled up solely on his behalf, so there was still that question, too.

Khalil made Marc’s favorite dinner and grilled some steaks, urging Ben to eat up. Even though his own appetite was minimal, he followed his own advice. “Don’t go into this kind of fight hungry or empty, if you can help it. You’ll need fuel for the adrenalin.”

“Kal’s right,” Adi confirmed. “Even if you don’t see action, the tension eats up energy, and we’ve got a long night ahead of us, no matter what happens.”

They never saw the FBI arrive, didn’t see any of them until long after the first alarm tripped at 4:22 AM. Marc had set up the command post in the basement where they had also crated Buddy, so they watched on the laptop as first one, then three, then eight figures moved down all the wired trails toward the house. Khalil had a feeling that wasn’t all of them. Adi and Marc went for the stairs, Khalil and Ben right behind them, but continuing up to the second floor where the steps for the attic had already been dropped. They ascended those—carrying the scatter guns and Ben’s rifle, Khalil with his sidearm in a holster on his thigh—and Khalil pulled the stairs up behind them, bringing the pull cord with him, all silently and in the dark. Ben went to the dormer in front from which the bed had already been moved and Khalil to the dormer in back housing the kitchenette, both of them keeping low profiles behind the open louver shades. Khalil watched the shadows of more figures move out of the woods and up to the back of the house, and felt a chill down his spine. The silhouettes were all too familiar from previous battlefields.

Then there was nothing for several minutes though Khalil could almost feel them rounding the house to the steps on the front and the south side. When the shouting started, a new set of figures burst from the trees around the house and floodlights came on all four sides. The only differences in the figures now emerging from the woods were the letters on their kevlar and their numbers: the Feds had sent a large, efficient, and highly trained SWAT team. Above the shouting came a short burst of chatter from an automatic weapon, the sound of glass breaking, the boom of shotguns going off, and shrieks of pain, followed by more shouting and individual gunshots. “Goddammit,” Khalil muttered under his breath, feeling helpless and worried for Marc and Adi. He could see several figures on the ground, cuffed or being cuffed, and wondered how many they’d managed to catch, his range of sight being fairly limited out this window.

“How’s it look?” he called softly to Ben.

“FBI’s got the yard lit up, and Marc’s turned on our floods, but only two guys cuffed that I can see. How about you?”

“Three cuffed that I can see. That’s at least three unaccounted for.”

“Here’s two more,” Ben said a few nerve-wracking and silent minutes later.

“Still down at least one,” Khalil muttered tensely.

Another quick burst of gunfire from back in the woods and more tense waiting. Another SWAT team member trickled in with another prisoner, but there was still no word from Marc downstairs.

More waiting.

Time seemed to stretch until seconds were as long as minutes, the minutes interminable. Khalil took to counting his breaths as he’d done while waiting before a mission. It was effectively calming, so the next burst of gunfire and the shouts of “Man down! Man down!” didn’t set him off like they could have, though it still made his heart jump.

A swarm of FBI agents seemed to come out of various parts of the woods then, several of them dragging prisoners, but one supporting another as he clutched his side. “Marc’s out,” Ben reported. “Bringing in the wounded guy.”

They continued to watch as FBI agents filtered into the yard, some with more prisoners.

Fifteen minutes later, there was a coded rap on the wall downstairs and Ben let the steps down. It was Adi who appeared to let them know what was going on, in this break in the action.

“How’s the guy who was hit?” Ben asked.

“Bruised, maybe a broken rib; it didn’t get through his kevlar though. But boy, did that make the Feds mad.”

“Yeah, never smart to shoot at federal officers,” Khalil remarked. “Or cops in general.” He still felt tense, as though this wasn’t over yet, and when he looked out the window again, he saw a majority of the SWAT team heading back into the woods. “How many do they think are still out there?”

“They’re pretty sure they got everyone, but they killed the guy who shot their buddy, so they’re going back to set up a crime scene and keep searching to make sure. There are more Feds at the other end of the trails.”

Khalil nodded. “I thought there might be. Can you get through the woods off-trail, Ben?”

“This time of year? Yeah,” he nodded. “It’s slow going, but you can do it. And you’re not going to get through it without showing everybody where you went, no matter how good a hunter you are. The underbrush is still pretty thick even without leaves. There’s still snow, and lots of mud and wet spots, and you’ll break a lot of branches. And in the dark? Way easier to get turned around and fall on your ass.” He looked at his watch. “And it’s not going to be light again for a couple of hours yet.”

Khalil nodded, Ben’s words confirming his conclusions from hours of snowshoeing the trails in winter. “So is this the all-clear?” he asked.

“Not quite, but Marc thinks it’s safe to come down. We’ve got a call in to the coroner.”

“Shite, they’ll be here all day again.” That had only just registered with him, tired as he was. Khalil rubbed his forehead. “I’m getting too old for this.”

“I think I was born too old for this,” Ben quipped and rubbed a hand on Khalil’s back in affectionate commiseration. That made Khalil smile. There were two of them, together, with friends. They’d do okay.

Still carrying their weapons, they went downstairs again and found the house not quite full of but occupied by more agents than Khalil had expected, given the number who had disappeared into the woods. This operation must have drawn agents from across the region, including Andy Sanders, who appeared to be bossing the job with his second, Robin Webb. He and Ben and Khalil shook hands and Khalil stowed his shotgun in the gun locker and went to put the coffee on. They were going to need a lot of it. Possibly food, too. Ben stowed his shotgun and rifle too, and went downstairs to check on Buddy.

The wounded agent was sitting uncomfortably on one of the barstools, helmet off but still in his kevlar and holding his side. “Have a seat on the couch,” Khalil said, gesturing to one of the new ones that faced into the kitchen. It’s a hell of a lot more comfortable. They sending an ambulance for you?”

The agent nodded as Khalil helped him off his stool and eased him down onto the cushions. “Soon as the scene’s cleared,” he said, and leaned back with a sigh. “Thanks. That’s way better. Hope I don’t fuck up your upholstery.”

“Better that than you falling off that stool,” Khalil said wryly. “Anyway It’s scotchgarded, and replaceable. We’ve got a dog.” Khalil put the kettle on for tea and got the ibuprofen out of the half bath, taking the agent two tabs and a glass of water. “Those bullet hits hurt like hell, even when they don’t break anything or go through,” he commiserated. “I’d give you a good shot of whiskey if I didn’t think the medics would have my head later.”

“I’d drink it if you did,” the agent said with a grin. “I’m Special Agent Josh Hudson, by the way, Mr. Cahill. Thanks for the ibuprofen,” he said, handing the glass back after he’d emptied it. “Josh will do fine for anybody who gives me legal painkillers and offers me whiskey.”

“Then it’s Kal to you, Josh. Take me up on the whiskey another time.”

“Done,” the young agent said, leaning back carefully and closing his eyes, clearly waiting for the ibuprofen to kick in.

Khalil handed him a mug of sweet tea “for the shock” about the time Ben came up from the basement.

“How’s Buddy?” he asked.

“Fine, though he’d like to be up here sniffing all the new people and making friends. Kinda like you, now that I think about it,” Ben replied with his trademark mock innocence.

Agent Hudson nearly choked on his tea. “Is that what you’re doing? Making friends?”

“Let me guess,” Ben said. “He put you on the couch, got you some ibuprofen, and made you sweet tea.”

“I didn’t sniff him though,” Khalil added.

The agent snorted a laugh and then grimaced. “Please don’t make me laugh. Or spill this. Kevlar’s not much protection against hot liquids.”

Marc came in then and spoke to Andy about something, then walked over to Khalil. “Still one guy missing, as far as we can tell.

“Shit,” Khalil, Ben, and Agent Hudson said at about the same time. Ben’s phone rang from the breast pocket of his shirt and he stepped away to answer it. Khalil kept one ear on that impossibly early morning conversation while listening to Marc describe the ongoing search, and heard Ben say, “hang on,” then, “Agent Sanders, you need to hear this. It’s our next door neighbor, Tom Nikkari.” He handed the phone to Sanders and stepped back into the huddle around Khalil.

“Kit and Quin took down our last gunman,” he said, grinning. “They heard the shots and saw the lights over here and tackled this guy scuttling down their driveway. Kit’s like, ‘tell the FBI I said to come get ya boy,’” Ben laughed. “It’s a wonder either of them heard anything; they were up playing Warcraft. ”

“Meddling kids. They could have gotten killed,” Marc growled. “I’d better go over and make sure the Feebs don’t mistakenly bust them. I’m sure they both stink like skunk weed.” He headed off with the two agents Sanders was sending over.

Khalil let out a deep breath he felt like he’d been holding since this had started. “Let’s hope that’s it, then.”

“Andy said they’d gotten most of the worst instigators in the organization, so this might break them,” Adi said, squeezing his arm. “I’m sure they’ll turn up more in the investigation too.”

Khalil put coffee on and handed out lidded go-cups to the agents inside, leaving spoons and fixings on the counter, and started to make Korean breakfast sandwiches on the grill. They’d stocked up on provisions earlier in the week in anticipation, Khalil knowing full well how hungry people were post-mission. Word of the victuals got around rapidly and agents rotated in and out to grab a coffee and a sandwich with thanks, while Ben pulled shots and made cappuccinos for those who wanted them. Andy half-seriously complained they were spoiling his agents while drinking a cappuccino.

The ambulance for Josh and the Coroner arrived on each other’s heels, the CSI team not long after them, trudging out into the woods, lugging their equipment as the sky lightened. A transport van pulled down the drive around sunrise and Khalil, Marc, Ben, and Adi watched from the porch as thirteen cuffed militia members were loaded into it, none of them familiar faces. Three SWAT wagons followed to load up almost everyone else, leaving only Sanders and Agent Webb behind to keep an eye on the CSI team and the Coroner.

Only when the house was empty except for Marc and Adi did Khalil notice the shattered glass and bullet holes in the French doors and the bullets embedded in the opposite wall.

“Christ and Allah,” he muttered. “I’m tired of people wrecking my house.”

Ben slipped an arm around his waist. “It’s all replaceable, like you said. It’s annoying, yeah, but we’re all okay and hopefully this shit is done now.”

“No, you’re right, boyo. Thanks for reminding me. Windows are easily replaced and bullet holes in walls easily patched.”

Marc was slouched on the kitchen couch where Agent Hudson had been, Adi beside him leaning against his shoulder and yawning. “Better not be any fucking bullet holes in my SUV,” he grumbled. “Should have parked on the other side of your impervious monster.”

“Did you two get coffee and food?” Khalil asked.

“Yes, Mom,” Marc said. “Thanks. Those sandwiches are good, too.”

“What if I told you … they’re Korean street food,” Khalil said, with a sly smile. Beside him, Ben was grinning and Adi gave him a wink Marc couldn’t see.

“I’d say I’m too tired right now to give a fuck,” Marc replied, eyes still closed. “You could feed me Martian food right now and I’d eat it.”

“If you want to sack out in the guest room before you go home, help yourselves. At least get a nap before you drive home. I’m probably going to have one myself.”

“That sounds like a fantastic idea, Kal,” Adi said, still yawning as she hauled Marc to his feet. “Thanks. Come on, Sheriff. Let’s have a wash up and a nap. I stink like adrenalin and so do you.”

From his perch on his usual stool, Khalil watched his friends go upstairs, Adi with her hand on Marc’s back as though pushing him, and yawned hugely himself. Ben pulled him to his feet, pointed him at the stairs and gave him a shove. “Go have a nap yourself, sir. You’ve been up way past your bedtime.”

“What about you?” Khalil said, turning around again and pulling Ben into his arms. “I’d like someone to curl up with.”

“I’m too wired right now. I’ll clean up here and maybe come up later. Go on.”

Khalil leaned over and kissed Ben tenderly, lingering a little with it before letting go and turning for the stairs. Truth was he was exhausted and Ben was right: he had been up way past his bedtime. A nap sounded fucking fantastic.

“Hang on, Colonel,” Ben called after him and grabbed his arm. “Leave your sidearm down here. I’ll lock it in the gun safe.”

“Hmm, good idea,” Khalil agreed, unstrapping the 1911 in its holster and setting it on the counter. After another quick kiss, he headed up the stairs to his own room. The guest room door was already closed and there was nothing but silence beyond it. Khalil went into his bedroom, peeled down to his undershirt, slipped into a pair of sweats, and lay down on the bed, pulling up the blanket at the foot of it after him. He closed his eyes and drew in a few slow, deep breaths to calm himself, falling asleep somewhere in the middle of the third one.

He thought he was dreaming when he heard the gunfire, thought it was the PTSD triggered by the stress of the day coming back to haunt him, but he was awake instantly and clearly heard two more shots that sounded like his handgun. He was up out of bed and in the hallway in two breaths, Marc and Adi just behind him. Marc, who was armed, pushed him back behind Adi, who was also armed, and headed for the stairs. Adi was already dialing 911 and he was just standing there, fucking useless, listening to Buddy barking and whining.

“Ben?” Marc mouthed silently.

Khalil pointed downstairs.

“It’s okay,” Ben’s voice called from below as though on cue, sounding strained. “I got him. It’s safe to come down.”

Marc and Adi started down cautiously, Marc with his weapon leading in a teacup grip until he saw Ben and a bundle of kevlar and black clothing on the floor being guarded by a pacing and whining Buddy. Khalil followed, trying to make sense of what he was seeing.

Ben was standing over the bundle of clothing with Khalil’s pistol pointed at it, mirroring Marc’s grip. Marc handed his own weapon off to Khalil and walked to Ben. “Put the safety on, kiddo,” he said gently, “and just set the gun down on the counter.” Ben complied without a word, not taking his eyes from the body, clicking the safety on and backing away to the counter with Marc’s guidance to put the pistol down. “Good, Ben. Okay, come over here now. Go have a seat on the couch with Kal.” As Khalil took Ben’s arm and guided them to the couch, Buddy followed, then sat between Ben’s feet and put his head in Ben’s lap. Ben petted him absently, still miles away in his head. Marc rummaged through the kitchen drawers until Adi went for the right one and got him a plastic bag to put the gun in. He nudged it in with a pair of tongs, and sealed the bag, leaving it on the counter.

“I’ll stay with him if you two want to get dressed before the rest of the reinforcements get here,” Khalil said, mouth quirked in a tight smile. “I think I’m still deputized.”

“For another few hours,” Marc confirmed, wearing just his shorts and still managing to exude authority. He and Adi, in a T-shirt and underwear, grinned back and trotted upstairs. Marc returned a few minutes later looking official if a little rumpled. Adi followed not long after, bringing the blanket from Kal’s bed to wrap around Ben, who was shivering and shocky and too silent for Kal’s liking. She also had Khalil’s clothes with her. He dressed where he was, not wanting to leave Ben and not shy in front of either Marc or Adi.

“Called Sanders while we were upstairs,” Marc said. “He’s on his way back with the CSIs again and the Coroner and nobody’s happy about it.”

“That makes all of us,” Kal said, pulling his jeans up and buttoning the fly, having peeled out of his sweats first.

“Mina’s on her way over too,” Adi said, turning on the kettle and digging out Kal’s teabags and rummaging for a clean cup. “I called her while Marc was talking to Sanders.”

“Thanks, Adi. I hadn’t even thought of that,” Khalil said, pinching the bridge of his nose.

By the time the red lights of the State Police cruiser came flashing down the driveway—within minutes of Marc’s call—they were all presentable and tired of the show. Andy and his second arrived suspiciously quickly, as Ben was still clutching the mug of tea and staring at the body.

“Drink up, boyo,” Khalil said quietly, stroking his hair. “Good for what ails you.”

“I’m fine,” he said faintly, as Marc filled in the FBI agent and his second and let them argue with the Statie about jurisdiction, but took a sip anyway, grimacing at the sweetness.

“You’re not, but it’ll pass,” Khalil told him. “Do you know where you are?”

Ben nodded. “Home.”

“How about the day?”

“Thursday—no, Friday, now, March 12th. Shit, man. I’m really fucking tired.” He closed his eyes finally, and dropped his head, looking away at last. “Can we go sit somewhere else that isn’t right in front of that fucking shitshow?”

Khalil got up and took the mug from Ben before he got to his feet and then guided him over to the dining table and sat next to him again, their backs to the kitchen. Buddy followed, sticking to Ben like glue. “Finish it,” he said, putting the mug down again in front of Ben, who smiled faintly up at him.

“Yes, sir.”

The rest of the day was pretty vile, as far as Khalil was concerned, and Ben concurred. Ben lawyered up immediately so the questioning had to wait until Mina arrived. By the time she did, the coroner had taken the body away and the CSIs were just about done too, but had doubled the mess. From the placement of the body—between the mudroom and the kitchen—and Ben’s own account, it seemed pretty clear that it was self-defense. Ben had uncrated Buddy and was cleaning up the kitchen when he started growling. They had spotted the assailant when he was already on the porch, and Ben had grabbed Khalil’s pistol and shot him through the glass of the interior door. Both shots had found their mark and the assailant was dead before he hit the floor, collapsing onto it when Ben opened the door. Decked out as he was in body armor and carrying an AR-15, there wasn’t any question that the man’s intentions had not been a friendly visit. The ID on the body, both military-issued dogtags and his driver’s license, confirmed he was one of the militia members the FBI had been expecting that day.

“This is the guy you’d been trying to find, wasn’t it?” Khalil said to Sanders, who just smiled and said nothing. “The one the Nikkaris caught was probably your inside guy. And that’s why you got here so fast, you fucker. We were bait again. And don’t tell me we were never in any danger. That’s clearly bullshit.” Webb, Sander’s second, at least had the grace to look a little guilty. Mina was furious on their behalf, but not as furious as Khalil. Ben hadn’t seemed to grasp it yet.

Sanders made Ben run through the story three times, but declined to charge him. He and Webb left after telling Ben he’d have to come downstate to their field office to sign his statement when it was ready, and he and Khalil might be called as witnesses when and if there was a trial of any of the other militia members.

“Another splendid interaction between law enforcement and the public they serve and protect,” Mina said sourly, when the agents had gone.

“Excuse me,” Ben said suddenly and hurried into the little half-bath. Sounds of retching reached them in the kitchen where they’d congregated again and Khalil felt a slow burn of rage fill him. Tamping it down, he met Ben at the bath’s door and steered him upstairs and into their room, where he peeled Ben out of his clothes, only now noticing the blood spatter on his shirt, and threw back the covers for him. Ben crawled into bed like a wounded animal, and Buddy, not normally allowed on the bed, climbed up after him and curled up next to him. Khalil sat beside Ben and stroked his hair until he fell asleep hugging Buddy, then went downstairs again, carrying the bloodied shirt. Marc and Adi and Mina watched as he stoked up the fireplace and tossed in the shirt, watching until it was consumed by the flames.


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tidying up loose ends and trying to find a way back to whatever Normal is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A sort of wandering in the wilderness story about what you do when it's mostly over.

Khalil woke to find Ben shivering next to him. Somehow, he’d kicked off the covers and was wrapped tightly around himself, teeth chattering. Buddy, who had been sleeping on the floor beside Ben, was nosing at him and whining, though Ben remained firmly asleep. Khalil threw the blankets back over him and snuggled closer, pulling Ben against him. Buddy looked at him and cocked his head, eyes shining in the low light of early morning leaking through the shades. Khalil smiled and patted the mattress next to Ben and Buddy jumped up and curled himself against Ben again. Khalil was pretty sure the lad needed all the comfort he could get right now, though between his own body heat, Khalil’s, and Buddy’s, that’s probably how he’d ended up without blankets.

Judging by the light, it was later than his usual rising time but he lay in bed for a while, just holding Ben and drowsing, enjoying the comfort himself after the miserable day they’d had yesterday. He’d gone to bed about his usual time, after Marc and Adi had gone home, and after spending the rest of the evening cleaning up what he could of the shambles left in their house by domestic terrorists and law enforcement. First, he’d scrubbed blood from the floor and walls, surprised by how little there was. The low-velocity .45 slugs, slowed more initially by the glass of the inside mudroom door and then by layers of cloth and skin and bone, had gone into the intruder’s skull and stayed there, though Khalil wouldn’t be surprised if they’d cracked the back of it too, or were embedded there. He wasn’t interested enough to find out; the beast was dead and that was all that mattered. Because he’d been standing behind the counter with the door and broken glass between them, the high velocity blood spray had spattered only a little of Ben’s shirt and hands and face, the former of which Khalil had burned and the latter of which Ben had scrubbed until Khalil had had to stop him. He’d caught Ben at it after he’d vomited and that had made him send the lad off to bed.

The rest of the fine spray in the mudroom and kitchen entrance came up easily with soap and water from the slate floor and off the wall and door with a light scrubbing, though the paint would need a bit of a touch up. He’d do that when he’d spackled over the bullet holes, which he did after cleaning up. There were more throughout the house than he’d realized at first and more broken panes in the French doors than he’d thought. Those would have to wait until later, though he covered the broken panes with cardboard for the time being. The spackling went relatively quickly though, once he found the compound and a spackling knife in the basement, where his neighbors had left the materials after their last cleanup. He located Ben’s stash of sandpaper and the cans of paint and a brush from the most recent repainting and took those upstairs as well to be ready for morning, before showering and turning in himself. Now, he eased himself out of bed to make some coffee and do the touch-ups before Ben got up. He wanted to erase as much of the previous day as possible before Ben came downstairs again.

It was almost noon before Ben made an appearance, tottering groggily down the stairs with Buddy at his heels. Khalil immediately let Buddy out, amazed the dog had waited this long, and started pulling a shot for Ben, who had sat himself on his usual stool and was rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands, his bed-head worse than usual. When it was ready, Khalil brought him his espresso and sat down beside him. Ben looked at it dubiously.

“I’m not sure that’s going to stay down.”

“Give it a go,” Khalil urged, running his fingers through Ben’s messy hair and kissing his temple. “You can probably use the stimulant.”

Ben gave him a look. “Voice of experience?”

“Aye,” Khalil said ruefully. “Killing fellow humans is physically draining.”

Ben’s expression froze and he sank his face into his hands. “Fuck. That’s what I did yesterday, isn’t it?” he said, voice muffled.

Khalil kept stroking his fingers through Ben’s hair. “Come on. Drink up. I want to show you something.”

Ben shuddered and dropped his hands, looking at the espresso shot as though it were a cup of something vile. Then he steeled himself and downed it and followed Khalil.

“Get your shoes and a jacket, so you don’t get chilled. Your immune system is going to take a hit from the stress for the next few days.”

Ben, watching where he was stepping in the confines of the mudroom, nearly ran into Khalil, who was shrugging on his own jacket. “Did you clean the floor?”

“I did. And filled in and painted over most of the bullet holes. That’s how I found this.” He opened the outside door, stepped out on the porch, and walked over to the window nearest the bar as Ben followed him. “I saw this while I was looking for bullet holes and damage from the shotguns,” he said, finger brushing over a small, radiating web of cracks in the glass at about chest height. “Then I went looking for the hole in the screen, because this wasn’t done by rock salt or birdshot.” He walked back toward the other end of the porch, near the door again, and pointed to a hole in the screen there, at the same level as the mark on the glass. The tiny prongs of broken wire pointed inward toward them around the edge of the hole; something outside had spread and broken them. “That’s a sniper shot, at an oblique angle to the house, which is probably why it glanced off. These impact-resistant windows you bought us after the explosion are tough as hell, and he wasn’t expecting that. I think this probably happened while we were downstairs and the agents were roaming around inside. It was noisy in there and nothing broke, so we didn’t notice it. But he knew he’d missed and he was in a good spot somewhere out front where nobody was searching, so he waited until everyone left and there was just you in the kitchen, cleaning up. He knew he was going to have to come inside so he waited until your back was turned. He didn’t see Buddy—”

“—but Buddy saw him or smelled him or heard him and started growling. And I turned around and saw him already inside the mudroom and grabbed your gun.” Ben finished, and sat down abruptly on the swing, face pale. Khalil sat down beside him.

Buddy, still out for his constitutional, heard his name and ran up to the porch and barked to be let in. Khalil got up and did so then went back to sit beside Ben. Buddy joined them, wagging furiously and licking both their hands.

“If you hadn’t shot him first, Ben, he’d have killed you, and Buddy,” Khalil said, rubbing Buddy’s head, “and then he’d have come upstairs for me and Marc and Adi and likely killed at least one of us. You did the right thing. You did what you had to, to not become prey. To keep the people you love from becoming prey.”

Ben smiled at him then, and it had just a touch of slyness, but was mostly sad. “I see what you’re doing, Khalil. I appreciate it, but it doesn’t really help. I wasn’t thinking about what you said about not letting them get in. He was, this guy was just a danger. I saw that balaclava’d-up face in the window and all I could think of was that he was trouble and I had to stop him. I don’t think I even thought about it, really, not in so many words. There wasn’t time for that. It was just instinct.” He let out a breath that turned to mist in the cold March air. “I can still see the bullets going into his face. I put one right in his eye.”

Khalil nodded. “When it’s up close and personal, it’s hard to lose those images. They’ll be with you for a while,” Khalil warned him, not sugar-coating it. “But you’ve got a good therapist, and you’ve got me and Marc and Adi to talk to, who know what it’s like.”

“Does that mean I’ve joined the Badass Club?” Ben said with the barest trace of his usual mischief and a load of sarcasm.

“Afraid so,” Khalil said, stroking his head. “I don’t know if you noticed this or not, but the rifle that prick was carrying had been illegally modified to full auto. You took out a guy carrying an automatic rifle with only a handgun. That’s pretty damn badass, boyo; no getting around it. You may have earned yourself the Badass medal with Fuck You poison ivy cluster.”

Ben did laugh then, and shook his head. “That makes it a little better somehow. Or a little worse. I’m not sure which.”

“It should make it better, but I know what you mean. It’s hard to realize you’re good at something like this and feel good about it. It’s not a socially acceptable skillset except among a small portion of the population, some of whom are criminals or nutbags. But some are people who do hard, ugly work so the rest of the population doesn’t have to. And if it didn’t make you feel bad to take a human life, I’d be worried about you. That’s a good sign that your psyche is ultimately pretty healthy. Come on, let’s go in before we both get chilled. I need more coffee, and you need food. You missed dinner last night so it’s a fry-up for you.”

Inside the mudroom again, Ben peeled off his jacket and kicked off his shoes. He was reaching for the inner door when he stopped again, looking down below the broken panes of glass in it.

“Did you see this?” he said to Khalil, pointing at a spray of holes that made a chaotic pattern in the wood.

“No, I don’t know how I missed that,” Khalil replied, squatting down to look through one of them, then standing up again. “Right through into the counter. I think he dinged one of the barstools, too. He shot first?”

Ben said nothing for a long minute. “I—I honestly don’t know. It all happened so fast.”

“Gunfire woke me up, and then I heard two pistol shots,” Khalil said, reviewing in his head. “So I’m thinking you surprised him by going for the pistol and he had a twitchy finger. If he was a sniper, that AR-15 wasn’t his preferred weapon. It’s not a sniper’s rifle. I wonder where his other one is? Still in the woods maybe, where he was hiding.”

“We should look for it,” Ben said, frowning thunderously.

“We should tell Marc to look for it. Not our problem, boyo. Unless you want a trophy.”

“Oh fuck no!” Ben looked horrified. “I’m not sure I’m going to touch a gun again. I never liked the damn things to begin with. But I don’t like the idea of it sitting out there on our land, loaded, for one of the Nikkari kids to find. I think that makes it our responsibility. We can call Marc after we find it. Nobody knows these woods better than I do anyway.”

“All right, then. We’ll get some food and go look for it.”

Between Khalil’s military instincts about where their sniper might have holed up to take that shot, and Ben’s familiarity with the land, it didn’t take them long to find his nest. And nest it was. From the appearance of the branches camouflaging it, it was several days old, at least. They were shocked to find cold weather camping gear and the detritus of MREs, as well as the sniper rifle in its waterproof case, and the empty AR-15 case, and a set of night vision goggles. They left it undisturbed and called Marc, Ben guiding him in from the driveway. The discovery provoked much swearing from Marc and a call to Sanders as well. Marc taped off the site and came in to wait until the FBI showed up again.

“Every time I think this shit is over…” he muttered, taking a mug from Khalil and parking himself next to Ben on a barstool. The mangled one was sitting in a corner, waiting for repairs.

“Right?” Ben agreed, brows nearly meeting in a frown. “I hope to hell this is the last of it. Especially that nobody makes us testify.”

“I don’t think that will happen,” Marc said. “You weren’t in on the action except at the very end, and there won’t be a trial for that. How’re you doing today, kiddo?” He put a hand on Ben’s shoulder and squeezed.

“Hard to say,” Ben admitted, looking away. “Okay one minute and not so the next.”

“That’s about how it goes for a while,” Marc agreed. “It’ll stop smacking you in the face eventually. I’m hoping nobody really has to hear about it outside our circle though—just to make it easier on you, not because you did anything wrong.”

“I’m sure as shit not going to tell anybody,” Ben muttered. “I mean, how does that even come up in conversation? ‘What’d you do last week, Ben?’ ‘Oh, we had a militia raid on the house and I killed—’” He stopped and ground the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

“C’mere, kiddo,” Marc said gently, and pulled him into a hug. “It’s not pretty, but you did the right thing. And it’s not easy, as it shouldn’t be. But it’s okay. And you’ll be okay.”

And this was why Khalil had pulled Marc up after him in the ranks to be his second and recommended him for promotion before he retired from the service. He was skilled at his job, paid attention to details, had the hardest ass around, but he took care of his people emotionally when they needed it and that made him a good leader. It made him a great dad and a good LEO too. He knew it would mean a lot to Ben to get that reassurance not just from Khalil himself but from Marc as well.

After a few minutes, Ben pulled away and gave Marc a watery smile. Marc knuckled his head and squeezed his shoulder. Khalil handed him a handkerchief.

“Thanks. It’s good to know that when it goes to shit, you’re both still here.”

“Adi, too, kiddo. She said to remind you you’re part of our family too. You and dumbass here.”

“I always feel so welcome by you, too, asshole,” Khalil retorted with the usual affectionate, feigned hostility only two people who really care about each other can manage.

“You two have a really special relationship,” Ben laughed, shaking his head. “I can only aspire to that.”

Sanders and his CSI crew showed up a couple of hours later and Marc took them out to the sniper nest, leaving Ben and Khalil behind in the house.

“So now what?” Ben said, turning his empty coffee mug around in his hands. “I feel sort of paralyzed.”

“Not surprising,” Khalil said from the other end of the bar. “We had this huge angst-filled build-up ending in a lot of adrenalin and fear and craziness and now it’s over. Hard to go back to normal afterwards. But work is good for that. We’ve got some more repairs to do, and I just heard from the contractor your boss found us that he’d like to start pouring the foundation for the guesthouse and the addition to the VFW next week if the weather cooperates.”

Ben straightened up from his slouch, looking pleased and alert, as Khalil had expected he would. “Great! That means I can get one poured for the new garage and the breezeway! That’s excellent. And listen, I’ve been thinking about extending the garage footprint to the back of the house and moving the woodshop and the generator in there, with the battery packs. What do you think? We can take down some of the old outbuildings—why are you laughing?”

“You just proved my point. You’re going to be fine, Ben. We’ve got plenty to occupy us getting the place in shape again. Let’s make a list.”

Sanders and his crew departed without even a courtesy call, which was fine with both Ben and Khalil, who didn’t care if they never saw the man or another FBI agent ever again. Marc, however, stopped in on the way home to let them know the site had been cleared of evidence, and he’d bagged up what the Feds had declined to take to drop in Khalil’s trash. There was nothing left to show the place had ever been anything but an odd collection of stray branches.

“Now for fuck’s sake, stay out of trouble, you two,” Marc admonished. “I’ve had more dangerous work in the past year you’ve been here than I’ve had in all the years I’ve been sheriff.”

“Hey, we did you a favor cleaning up the militia presence,” Khalil countered, half seriously.

“Don’t tell anybody I said this, but yeah, you did do us a huge favor. I just wish it had included a little less mayhem and fewer injuries in the process.”

“Seconding,” Ben said fervently. “And I still can’t believe it’s only been a year since the two of you hauled my ass out of the woods here.”

“Does seem a lot longer than that, doesn’t it?” Marc agreed. “Like we’re all old friends, not just me and Kal. Which reminds me, Ben, Adi and I never did say thanks for saving our asses yesterday. Sanders informed me your sniper was a Ranger who was booted for conduct unbecoming. If he’d gotten past you, it’s likely we’d all be dead. I owe you one, kiddo. It’s not a small thing to save other people’s lives.”

“That’s what Khalil said, too. I don’t seem to feel very proud of what I did.”

“You can be proud of saving people’s lives, Ben, and still not like how you had to do it. This guy was a bad apple all around. And the fact that you not only took out a professional armed with an automatic rifle, but a former Army Ranger, with a fucking handgun—that’s not just luck. That’s quick thinking and skill. You should be proud of that. The Army would be dumping medals all over you right now.”

“I told him he’s earned the Badass medal with Fuck You poison ivy cluster,” Khalil said with a grin, his hand on Ben’s shoulder.

Marc laughed. “Hell, yes!” he agreed and stuck out his hand. “You’ve passed your initiation, kiddo. Welcome to the Badass Club.”

Khalil was glad to see Ben laugh too as he shook Marc’s hand, even if it was a bit rueful. “Careful what I wish for, huh?”

“That was always Mr. Cheerful’s mantra,” Marc said, pointing a thumb at Khalil.

“That’s the Irish and their Good Folk legends I grew up with,” Khalil acknowledged. “The Persians have a thing or two to say about treating with _djinns,_ too. Americans just let it rip without a damn thought for the consequences. Only people of a young nation would do that. Crazy fuckers.”

“That’s why you love us,” Marc said, and Khalil nodded with faux chagrin.

On the heels of the horror that had been the last few weeks came good things too: the papers for Manizha’s adoption had been signed and returned and were ready to be filed. Khalil had kept all the requisite paperwork from his first attempt, including the proof-of-death paperwork for Manizha’s parents from Afghanistan, which had made the process easier and quicker, but Manizha would still have to be present for the final court date, whenever that was. Khalil told the lawyer to hold off filing until after her graduation, so it wouldn’t conflict with either her _viva_ or the ceremony, but let her know that everything was ready to launch. That had been a happy Skype session, Manizha dancing around on camera and Khalil wanting to hug her tight. Afterwards, he wandered around with what Ben fondly told him was a goofy grin on his face for a couple of days. Having finally remembered who she was, he also got in touch with Manizha’s friend, Helen, and set up a date for them to Skype to discuss his foundation.

Ben’s “boss” called to check on him and invite him back to his internship now that the building season was kicking up again, and Ben went back with both relief and pleasure. He took the modified plans for the garage in to have them checked over and he and Khalil started digging out and rearranging the braces for the new footprint in anticipation of the concrete pour. Ben mapped out the area for the breezeway as well and they got that ready too. Khalil happily drove him to work each morning and picked him up, as they were still down one set of wheels.

Working his way down the repair punchlist, Ben ordered a replacement window for the kitchen, mended the hole in the screen, and got new glass for the French doors, which he taught Khalil how to install. Khalil replaced one of the French doors entirely and the inside mudroom door too because they were just too shot up to repair. Ben salvaged as much of the glass and wood as he could and added it to his scrap materials store. Seeing how the pile had grown, Khalil thought moving the wood shop to behind the garage was an even better idea than he’d originally thought. They left the bullet holes in the counter as they were, to give the house some history, after rummaging in the cupboards to find what was left of the bullets themselves. One had gouged the leg of one of the bar stools badly enough that it would need soldering, and another had embedded itself in a cast iron pot while the others had ricocheted around inside doing various kinds of damage to cookware that pissed Khalil off. He poked at the handful of them they recovered with distaste and pronounced them armor-piercing and illegal, just like the gun’s mods had been.

Somehow, the Tank had escaped any damage this time, which was one piece of good news. Ben’s insurance check for his truck arriving was another. Mindful of Khalil’s advice, he had dipped into his own savings as well and walked in with a good down-payment and a better loan deal this time. He ended up with one similar to Adam’s now kablooied model, though far less decked out. Khalil could tell he was relieved to have his own wheels again. The first thing he did was go off to the lumber yard and come home with a load of live-edge mahogany. Once it was ensconced in the woodshop, Khalil was ordered in no uncertain terms to bugger off, nothing to see here.

Meanwhile, Khalil had his meeting with Manizha’s friend, Helen, who was clearly as smart as Manizha claimed, as well as funny and personable and excited by his idea for a foundation and the various projects he was currently involved in—including the one he’d dreamed up while at the car dealership with Ben. He’d been thinking about ways to get Molly some transportation that she would accept and hit on the idea of endowing the shelter itself with either the funds for or an actual vehicle plus a small fund for insurance and maintenance and gas that the residents could use to get to classes or court dates or jobs. That had led to thinking about tuition funds for women in Molly’s situation, too. Helen, a tiny blond powerhouse whose people were miners in the North, and whose broad Northern accent belied her Oxbridge/LSE education, sketched out a structure for those endowments as they were Skyping and Khalil knew Manizha had been right about her. She seemed the perfect person to put together and run this amorphous foundation for him, and told her so.

“I’d like to meet you in person though,” Khalil said. “ before we seal the deal. Would that be possible?”

“It would, at your convenience,” she said with a smile. “I do have a question though. Where do you want your foundation to be headquartered? I’m assuming near where you’re living?”

“Not necessarily,” Khalil said with his own lopsided smile, realizing this was a delicate way of asking where she’d be required to move if she took this job offer. “The folks who look after my financial affairs are mainly in Dublin and New York. Either of those appeal to you? I imagine most of the bequests will be local or at least stateside at the start, but there’s already one school in Afghanistan that I’m funding that I thought we’d bring in under this umbrella, so that’s not necessarily going to always be true. If you’re comfortable working internationally, and don’t think the legal impediments will be too great, the start-up location is negotiable. I’m certainly not going to require you move to this Little Town in the Back Woods.”

Helen looked relieved at that and Khalil guessed that Manizha had told her horror stories about the cold. “I’m currently in Liverpool, but would love to move back to London—though Dublin would be fine too. I suppose those are details we can iron out in person.”

“Yes. Send me convenient dates for you, since I’m the person of leisure here, and I’ll get a flight.”

They arranged a date in two weeks and Khalil broached the subject of going to England with Ben at dinner that night. He came in from the woodshop smelling of sawdust and still carrying some of it with him.

“Sorry, I’m tracking crap across the floor. I’ll sweep it up after dinner. Just let me wash my hands. Liverpool, huh? There’s a big collection of Pre-Raphaelites there, I think. I’d love to see that.”

“I’d go over to London, too, to see Manizha. If I’m lucky, I’ll be there for her _viva_. And I may have to pop up to Dublin to see my financial people up there.”

“I think you should go by yourself,” Ben said after a little consideration. “It’s really a business trip for you. I don’t have my passport yet anyway, and I shouldn’t leave David in the lurch again, after he was nice enough to invite me back. I’ve got plenty of stuff to do here, and I’ve got wheels again, so I’ll be fine. And I can spend some time with Mom, too. You and Manizha should have some dad-daughter time alone together. I’ll see her this summer.”

As sensible as it seemed to Khalil, it also felt like Ben’s first real step away from him, into his own future, and a preview of what their life might be like together after he’d graduated himself. He had his job with David, and projects here at the house to complete and supervise while Khalil was, indeed, the person with the leisure time. He’d have to accommodate himself to Ben’s schedule rather than the other way round. But perhaps having this foundation would give him more to do with himself. it was time to go back to his potter’s wheel and Michelle’s lessons, too. And getting the local VFW post back up on its feet.

He let the twinge of sadness go. No sense buying trouble at this stage. They’d had a surplus of it already.

The days before his trip to England went by quickly, full of poured concrete, the sound of construction, and the scarcity of Ben’s presence during the day. When he wasn’t at the architect’s office, or supervising the pouring of concrete or the framing of the guest house or VFW extension, he was in his woodshop with his secret project. Khalil had gotten so used to his presence around the house that he found he felt a little lonely and at loose ends, where Ben clearly wasn’t. He suspected that this was deliberate, Ben throwing himself into work to keep his mind occupied and off other things. He’d had several nightmares from which Khalil had woken him, and his first therapy appointment since the shooting had left him wrecked for the day. He was a little worried about leaving Ben, but he insisted he’d be fine. Christ and Allah knew the lad had been through worse with fewer resources and all alone. But it was hard to strike a balance between being protective and treating Ben like the child he wasn’t and possibly never had been. He was coping and had a good sense of what his limits were, so Khalil would have to trust him.

Ben dropped him off at the airport with a warm hug and a sound kiss, instead of letting him drive there alone and leave the Tank in long-term parking as he’d planned to. It was a nice gesture that he’d experienced so infrequently that it felt brand new and warmed him all the way into the air. He changed planes downstate to the international flight and then settled in to grab some sleep, and slept soundly enough that he had a moment of disorientation when the flight attendant woke him as they were coming into Manchester, thinking he was back in the service and it was his turn to jump. Considering that the last international flight he’d taken was to his new home, where he’d seen more action than he had in several years, that seemed only normal and gave him a bit of a laugh.

Customs went fairly quickly, which surprised him because he was traveling on his American passport, not his Irish one, which he usually used in Europe. Shouldering his carry-ons and yawning, he went in search of coffee and the trains to Liverpool. A bit more than two hours later, he was settling into his hotel room, and ordered up some breakfast and checked his email while waiting for it.

_Col. K.L. Cahill, U.S. Army (ret.) <KLCahill@gmail.com> 10:17 AM  
to Manizha_

_My dear and darling_ Loor _,_

 _I’ve arrived in Liverpool and will be meeting your friend Helen tonight for drinks at the hotel. I’m sure we’ll iron out the last details of her position in the next day or two, at which point, I may have to head up to Dublin to see my financial people. I do intend to see you before I leave, if you have time, and will let you know when I’m free. When is your_ viva _?_

_All my love,_

_Your babu, Khalil_

He felt absurdly and wonderfully sappy writing that, as well as ridiculously thrilled, and let himself bask in it for a few minutes before pressing on.

_Col. K.L. Cahill, U.S. Army (ret.) <KLCahill@gmail.com> 10:32 AM  
to Ben_

_Dear Ben,_

_Just wanted to let you know I made it here in one piece, without snafus. Hope you’re sleeping well. I miss curling up with you already. Be home soon._

_Love you,_

_Khalil_

Drinks with Helen turned out to be delightful. A tiny spitfire of a piece with Manizha, his first offer of a salary—intentionally low—merely drew a look with a raised eyebrow that said _I see exactly what you’re doing._ She countered with one much higher, but perfectly reasonable for the CEO of a charitable foundation tasked with putting it together from the ground up. Khalil accepted without any more haggling. She handed over a sheaf of paperwork that included a preliminary first-year budget that she’d already prepared for him to take to his financial people, and another sheaf outlining the setup of an endowment to the women’s shelter in town. That he hadn’t expected.

“What do I owe you for the spec work?” he said, looking through it.

She waved his question away. “I’d have charged you for it if we hadn’t come to an agreement, but you can just consider this the beginnings of our initial project. I’ll have my hands full this first year getting up and running, hiring staff, finding an office for us and so on, and I got the feeling this was time-sensitive. Your financial people can set that up and we’ll bring it in under our aegis when we’re operational, like your Afghan school. Is that the one in Manizha’s village?”

“It is,” Khalil confirmed. “She’s told you how she got to the LSE then?”

The young woman across from him broke into a smile that made her eyes light up, something she seemed to reserve for people she trusted. “Yes. And about the adoption. She’s so excited about that. Congratulations to you both.”

Khalil could feel himself flushing with pleasure. “Thank you. It’s been a long time in the works but I couldn’t be happier about it myself.”

The meeting went from drinks to a celebratory dinner that ended with a more than satisfactory handshake and arrangements for Khalil to return to Liverpool on his way home to finalize the initial budget. Helen seemed ecstatic to have the opportunity and Khalil thought she’d be a great working partner. They shared similar views about overhead and overstaffing, wanting somewhere modest for their headquarters and to keep the staff to the a minimum without working anyone to death. She promised Khalil a wish list of personnel and physical needs, “because I don’t expect you to work out of your home unless you’d like to,” he told her. “Figure in decent salaries and the requisite benefits to be paid by us when you make that budget, please. I’d like this to be a pleasant, well-remunerated place to work for everyone, from the cleaning staff on up. None of that trading more vacation time for a good salary that I’ve heard so many non-profits do.”

“What are you naming it?” Helen said, as they walked out of the hotel, she on her way home and Khalil to get some air. “That’s the one thing we hadn’t discussed. But you’ll need a name for the legal papers.”

Khalil was silent for a moment, having not given this any thought at all, for some reason. “I think,” he began, “I think I’d like to name it after my parents, who are both gone now, so I won’t catch hell for it. The Laila Khalili Cahill and Robert Cahill Foundation. Bit of a mouthful, that.”

Helen shrugged. “No worse than some I’ve heard. You know that will end up being just the Cahill Foundation to most people though.”

“Which is exactly what I don’t want. Let me think about it for a bit and get back to you.”

“How about the Khalili-hyphen-Cahill Foundation?” she suggested. “Much more likely to be shortened to Khalili Foundation, or not shortened at all.”

“That’s good,” Khalil agreed. “Khalili-Cahill it is. Thank you.”

“No, the pleasure is all mine, Khalil,” Helen said. “I can’t tell you how eager I am to get started. This is exactly the kind of work I’ve been wanting to do and it would take me years to get to this level of it if not for your job offer.”

“Well, blessings on Manizha’s head for bringing us together then.”

“Give her a big hug for me, when you see her,” Helen said, and Khalil agreed he would. One more excuse to hug his daughter. Not like he needed them.

The next few days were a headache, but he’d anticipated they would be, and it was in the service of something worthwhile, so he endured it with good humor. And at night his old friends in Dublin were at the pub, glad to see him, to make him merry again. By the time he left Dublin for London three days later, the ball was rolling, slowly but inexorably, on establishing the funds for the Khalili-Cahill Foundation, and Helen had sent him a preliminary operating budget and given notice at her job. They had decided on Dublin for the headquarters, since that’s where the bulk of Khalil’s money still was and it would be easier to make transfers between Ireland and the US if she was not working from a third country. By the time he touched down at City Airport, Khalil felt a sense of accomplishment he hadn’t in quite some time. Seeing Manizha waiting for him outside the gate just put the cherry on it.

“Hello, _Loor,”_ he said, dropping his bags and opening his arms to her. She walked into them and put her arms around his waist tightly as he kissed the top of her head and felt his heart trying to burst out of his chest. He teared up and didn’t care who saw. They stood that way with the traffic of debarking passengers flowing around them until they were the last ones at the gate. Both were wiping away tears when they stepped apart. Seeing each others tear-streaked faces, they both laughed.

“It’s good to see you again, Little One,” he said, stroking her hair.

“And you, _Babu_. You look well. Tanned and strong as I always remember you, stepping out of helicopters and off your motorbike.”

“Aye, six weeks in the California sun with my boyfriend will do that. Almost worth getting another concussion for. Ben sends his love, and Helen asked me to hug you for her, so I’d better do that before I forget.” And he did, Manizha laughing and hugging him back again.

“And where is Benjamin? I had thought he would come with you,” she said, stepping back again. “I was looking forward to seeing him.”

“Well, that’s a bit of a tale. Mostly he thought you and I should have some time alone as father and daughter. I’ll tell you the rest over dinner. Have I missed your _viva_?” he asked, picking up his bags again.

“Yes, or I would still be a nervous wreck. Last week. I will hear soon, for certain, but my tutors all congratulated me afterwards, so I am not very worried. How is Helen? Have you hired her?”

“I have. You were right about her. She seems like the perfect person to put this together. My lawyers are drawing up the contracts now and she’s already given notice. She’s going up to Dublin next weekend to start looking for housing and cultivate some estate agents. I’ve given her an advance on her wages to get her started.”

“Of course you did,” Manizha said, giving him a knowing look. “I am so glad this is working out. She is so brilliant and that charity in Liverpool cannot see it.”

“And fearless, just like you. I don’t imagine much gets past her.”

“No, she is very astute and so often underestimated here, because of her accent.”

“Oh, aye, that’s an old stupidity here. I can only imagine. Where’s she from?”

“Hatfield, in Yorkshire, I believe. She does not often go back. Her father did not want her to go to school. I think they have not spoken in many years.”

“That’s a shame. But men can be so stupid about their daughters.”

“Unlike you,” Manizha said, taking his hand as they walked down the concourse.

He stayed a couple of days with Manizha to catch up and was delighted when she introduced him to friends and professors as her father. He was getting used to hearing it now, and losing the momentary urge to look around for who she might be talking about. She was looking for jobs now and applying to various think tanks and research organizations in London and abroad, but it was early days to hear from any of them yet. Khalil hoped she might end up in the U.S., but kept that to himself; wherever she landed, he would visit, and it was more important that she be happy and doing work she loved than nearby.

She got the final results of her _viva_ just before he left. As Khalil had predicted, she came through it with distinction, and without even any suggestions for revision. “Even though I had quite a disagreement with one of the examiners! I am surprised!”

“I’m not, Little One,” Khalil said with a laugh. “I’m sure you taught him or her a thing or two. Let’s have a celebratory dinner. You choose the restaurant.”

He caught a late train to Liverpool and was back in his room there, yawning, by 1:30 and up early the next morning to meet Helen for breakfast before work and his own flight back to the States that evening. They hammered a bit at the budget, and Khalil suggested she leave more leeway in it for the unforeseen.

“I’d rather not waste your money,” she said with a frown.

“I trust you, Helen. You came with a very high recommendation and you’ve been nothing but capable from the get-go. I’ve never known Manizha to be wrong about who she trusts.”

He was surprised to see her flush and tear up a bit at that, though she got hold of herself quickly. He wondered how awful people at this job had been to her or if it was something else, if this was part of the “underestimation” Manizha had said she was dealing with. “Listen, if it’s none of my business, please say so, but if they’re being vile to you at that job, you don’t owe them anything. Pack your things and go. Today,” he advised. “Short-timer syndrome is bad for anyone. Are they really such an important bridge that you’d rather not burn it?”

“Not particularly,” she admitted, looking surprised at his perceptiveness. “I can’t see us partnering with them for anything in the future. And their director is a,” she hesitated for a moment.

Khalil gave her a lopsided smile. “Let me guess: a sexist son of a bitch? Or is it a condescending entitled twat? Or both?”

She laughed. “Both. Thank you for that. I’ll take your advice. I’d much rather get started on making this foundation happen than spend another minute with that, that—”

“Just say it,” he encouraged, laughing too. “You’ll feel better.”

“That _asshole,_ ” she spat, dropping effortlessly into the Oxbridge/BBC accent, with its long vowels that Khalil always thought made that word sound absurdly posh and not at all derogatory. It sounded so much more vicious in clipped American English.

“Well done. Feel better?”

“I do. Thank you. Sometimes one just needs to let go with a good expletive.”

“As an old Army vet, I couldn’t agree more,” Khalil said solemnly, which made her laugh again.

She put her hand out and Khalil took it warmly for a good shake. “I’m really going to enjoy working with you, Khalil.”

“Same here, Helen. Now, would you like someone to go with you and fend off your ex-boss while you collect your things?”

“Thank you, I don’t think that will be necessary. If he wants a scene, I’ll be happy to give it to him. I think half the office at least would stand up and cheer if I did.”

Khalil could believe that, from the look on her face. No wonder she and Manizha were friends.

They ironed out the last questions on the budget, which both understood was subject to change, and said their goodbyes, both with the sense of anticipation for what was to come. Khalil had plenty of time before he needed to catch the train to Manchester for his flight, so he took himself off to the museum to have a look at the Pre-Raphaelites. Millais and Rossetti’s work he knew, but the others were mostly unfamiliar to him, so he made careful note of them, and he bought a print of James Campell’s _The Dragon’s Den_ for Ben. Then it was time to go.

The trip back was uneventful, but by the time they were coming in over his local landing field, early in a sunny afternoon, Khalil was feeling a sense of excitement it took him a while to parse. It wasn’t until Ben waved at him from the gate that he identified it: he was excited to be home again. To see Ben, to sleep in his own bed with his _ifrit_ , to roam around the property with Buddy and wrestle sticks from him, have a morning run on his street with Marc, meditate to the sound of the fountain in the conservatory until the construction people arrived to work on the guest house, sit at the counter sipping coffee and watching the wildlife. But mostly to slip into Ben’s arms and hear him say, “Welcome home, sir.”


End file.
